


kinkmeme prompts fill collection

by pandaspots



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: AU collection, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Canon Divergence - Robert's Rebellion, Cheating, Community: valar-morekinks, Cuckolding, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Female Jon Snow, Fic Collection, First Time, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Genderbending spell, Heartbreak, Heavy Angst, Impregnation Kink, Infidelity, Intercrural Sex, Jon Snow Was An Adorable Toddler, Jon Snow is Not Called Aegon, Jon Snow is a Targaryen, Kink Meme, Male Ygritte, Mindless Fluff, Multi, Non-Consensual Body Modification, Other, Past Brandon Stark/Barbrey Ryswell, Pillow Talk, Polyamorous Character, Pregnancy, Public Blow Jobs, Romantic Comedy, Semi-Public Sex, Sensory Overload, Sibling Bonding, Smut, Stables Sex, Stark Family Shenanigans, Threesome - F/M/M, a little character study-ey, a little crack for the soul, all farm memes depicted are brazilian ones except for one, baby jon being adorable, badass elia, battle for the dawn wasn't a damn battle, brandon is an asshole, by now it's p clear i prefer 'aemon' as jon's targ name, cat starts asking questions, catelyn and ashara go enemy to 'i know that bitch' to friends with a common bf, cersei lannister had a role model after all, chatfic, clumsy oral times, daeron is male!dany, does it count as kidfic if the kid's a toddler that's napping all the time, drinking and betting, female torrhen stark, have olenna having ONE soft corner of her entire being, headcanon all aemons are bottoms which is why jon snow's name will be just that, hightower conspiracy? we haz it, implied open relationship, is this a pattern, it's a scenario thing, listen i have a soft spot for olenna, lowkey af shireen/bran if u squint, magical north au, men being men, mild roleplay, no rebellion au, not ned/cat/ash bc they don't all date each other, olenna talks to her dead ex basically, pls don't @ me i know it's horrible how it's handled, poly-ish relationships, rhaegar is an idiot, satin gets fucked into oblivion the one shot, shireen can see ghosts au, slightly ooc sansa, sometimes u just gotta be nice to rhaegar, technically, that should be a tag, they're ok with it, tinhat theory: the starks are related to the white walkers, trans identities mishandled, wherein i spare no expense to reason the shit out of maegor, winterfell is a farm yall wheres my farm memes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-06
Updated: 2019-11-14
Packaged: 2020-04-11 23:22:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 35
Words: 80,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19119805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pandaspots/pseuds/pandaspots
Summary: i can't damn post these on valar-morekinks, so yall gonna suffer methese are short ("short") fics written for prompts in valar-morekinks@LJ. ship, synopsis and prompt on chapter title and summaryplease enjoy!!





	1. Sansa/Domeric; Missed you

**Author's Note:**

> Thank u for clicking! I hope u enjoy ur stay, and also, see that there's a pattern in my ship-choosing........
> 
> first up:
> 
> Prompt: https://valar-morekinks.livejournal.com/8253.html?thread=3432253#t3432253
> 
> Summary: Sansa just could not wait for long enough until she's finally Lady Bolton.

Domeric was barely gone for a fortnight, to the Dreadfort and back for a few days to settle his father’s business with his bastard brother with her Lord Father, and while her father was on his way back immediately after, Domeric had stayed longer.

Sansa had missed him terribly.

“Sansa, please,” he pleaded, not sure to what gods, looking at his pretty fiancée, the dainty Lady Sansa, with her songs and pretty dresses, and her Uncle Brandon’s temperament.

“Please, what, Dom? Please, should I lift my skirts to show you I have no smallclothes on?” she teased, and he whimpered, grip tightening on her waist. “Please, should I ride you like those horses you mount so well? Or should you mount me like a stallion?”

“Sansa, please, we could be found out,” he finishes the sentence, and she giggles, amused.

“Oh, whatever would we do, then? We are to marry in three days, Dom.” She pushed him into an empty stable, and he stumbled backwards into a bale of hay. “I don’t care if they find us. Let them watch how you take me. Let them know that no one else will ever have me.”

She settled on top of him, skirts hitching up as she straddled him, sitting right on top of his manhood like countless times before, and he palmed up her leg to confirm that yes, she hasn’t bothered with smallclothes today. He whimpered under his little betrothed, as she leaned in and kissed him silent, hands moving fast and deftly to unlace his breeches, and he pulled them down in a hurry, hands moving towards her bodice to unfasten the upper part of her dress.

“Nuh-uh, Dom.” She batted his hand away. “It’s too cold.”

“Let me open just enough to kiss your neck, my lady,” he begged, hips snapping up into her, heart beating so fast he could’ve swore she could feel the thrumming in her skin.

“We can’t, Dom, we need to be fast,” she pleaded, rutting on his cock like a mare in heat. “I asked Aemon to run interference, but he can only delay the family so much, he and Arya.”

“I can barely wait for our marriage bed, where I get to fuck you as slowly and worshipping as you deserve, Sansa,” he whispered, reaching under her to hold his manhood steady, and Lady Sansa wasted no time sinking into him, letting him flip her back onto the hay, fucking into her furiously, and watched with adoration as she reached between her legs like a whore, chasing her pleasure as he did his, moaning his name as silently as she could, peaking messily all over his cock, and he had to pause to not lose himself to those wonderful feelings her little cunt gave him, all wet and tight and swallowing him up like her life depended on it.

“Dom, please, please, fuck me…” she begged weakly, mewling as her body convulsed at every tiny movement they made.

“As my lady commands,” he whispered into her mouth, kissing her until she needed to breathe, intent on not stopping until he was all spent into her.

“Fuck our baby into me, Dom, please, give me our son, right now,” she babbled, urging him along.

“Fuck… Sansa, don’t talk like that, you know how it gets me…”

“What? I want it, Dom, please, fuck that beautiful cock inside me and give me our child to fill me up, I want to get married to you already carrying your son, I love your cock so much I want to always be carrying your children, always, please just spill your seed already inside me, I want it, please Dom, please…” He didn’t know if she knew what she was saying anymore, but he knew she meant every word, as he lost himself in thinking about her being walked to him by the heart tree with his seed running down her legs, because she would find a way to get him and mount him before their wedding. She would, his little lady, all shy smiles in public.

He buried himself as deep as he would go inside her, spilling inside her so hard he could see nothing but her for a moment, holding Sansa close as her little cunt held his cock inside her, and he felt the queer wish to put his mouth on it, kiss her folds with a prayer they held his seed inside her, or to just see it leak out only for him to push it back in with his fingers. But the steps on the courtyard told him it would have to wait, as they had to make themselves mostly presentable. They just came to the conclusion that a bit of hay in their hairs wasn’t necessarily a bad thing when Lord Stark, Lord Robb and Prince Aemon arrived at the stables just as they fell into the hay again, kissing.

“Ah, there you are, Sansa, we were looking for you, but I see you found Lord Domeric on your own,” Lord Stark said, with the tone of a parent who’s aware of what happened and preferred not to think about it.

“Ah, foiled again,” she laughed, blushing prettily, and Domeric could’ve sword he saw Lord Robb and Prince Aemon trade long-suffering looks.

“We welcome you back to Winterfell, Lord Domeric, and I’m pleased to see you back in good health,” Lord Stark intoned, politely, almost as if he was saying ‘thank you for being willing to take on my deviant daughter’.

“My Lords, my prince, it’s always a pleasure to be your guest,” he said, very pointedly politely, and Prince Aemon made a face, a cringing one, and Domeric prayed the old gods would open up the ground and swallow him whole for his poor choice of words.

“My Lady wife is probably awaiting us, so we should better go inside at once. Is your horse seen to properly?”

“My Aunt, the Lady Dustin, would make me my family’s banner if I had not,” he said, conversationally, and prayed Lord Stark didn’t take his previous words to mean he defiled his oldest daughter at every chance.

“She had better not, I like you whole as you are,” Sansa said, with a dissimulated wink at him, and while he was trying to kill the odd tension, she was working her damnedest to make it worse it seemed.

“This marriage cannot come soon enough,” Lord Robb muttered, and Domeric couldn’t help but agree, for wildly differing reasons than the young Heir to Winterfell meant.


	2. Lyanna/Rhaegar&Elia Caught in the Act

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: https://valar-morekinks.livejournal.com/8859.html?thread=3720347#t3720347
> 
> Summary: Lyanna made a mistake, and surprisingly, it wasn't sleeping with a married man.

“Well, this is interesting.”

Lyanna looked up from where she stood, naked and completely exhausted on the bed, to stare into a woman’s dark eyes, who seemed to sparkle with mischief, disappointment and amusement.

“Elia!” Rhaegar said, in a strained tone of someone who didn’t expect to see someone else. “Uh.”

“Indeed,” she said in a mirthful tone. Lya was fairly sure it was very fake.

“Uhm. I’m Lyanna?” She offered, and it came out uncertain, as she wondered if she should cover up or not. Elia didn’t seem bothered, much, and turned to her with a mix of pity and resignment in her eyes.

“Why, nice to meet you, Lyanna. It sure is a surprise to have you here,” Elia said and Lyanna was sure she was missing several things here.

“Uh, I’ll just. Dress up and call an Uber, if you’d like privacy…” she started by Elia waved her off.

“No, no, stay, I’m about to have a lovely chat with my husband here, and since it concerns you, I’d very much like you to stay.”

“I’ll just… grab my phone, then, inform my brothers I didn’t die yesterday…” she trailed off, pulling up her pants off the floor and fishing up her phone.

“Oh please, do so, I wouldn’t want any sudden police interruptions looking for stolen sisters while we sort this mess out, right, husband mine?”

Elia’s tone was impressively icy and Lyanna’s respect for the wisp of a woman skyrocketed. Now this was someone who would give Ned a run for his money in the cold shoulder department. And Lyanna should better acquaint herself with it, because she was fairly sure Ned wouldn’t speak to her for a month after she texted their group chat about what was going on.

 

**[Lya]**  
Hey yall im not dead. Yet.

**[Branny boi]**  
THANK FUCK ANSWER UR PHONE U FUCKING WILDLING

**[Lya]**  
Cant im having a ball over here

 

“I thought I’d told exactly what I expected from our agreement, Rhaegar. This is a rather… unconventional way of fulfilling it, though.” Elia was only missing a teacup and a fluffy cat and she would be the picture of villainess peppiness.

“It’s not like I planned it, Elia, and I _was_ going to tell you--” He started then stopped abruptly at the snort his wife let out.

“Tell me like you told me about Cersei?” She asked and Lyanna whipped her head to look at the man beside her, mouth hanging out and brow furrowed in legitimate indignation.

“Lannister? Cersei Lannister? That Cersei?” She inquired off the couple, then nearly hurled her phone at Rhaegar. “I hope you power washed your whole body after that, because I might die of shock if any Cersei germs get on my body, that woman gives me the creeps.”

Elia, at least, was thoroughly delighted at Lyanna’s dislike of the other woman; it was at least a point they had in common, besides having slept with the man besides Lya in the bed.

 

**[Neddy the Cop]**  
For the love of all gods, Lyanna, please tell me you’re at least not going to jail this time.

**[Lya]**  
Calm down neddy boy im good   
Im just   
Laying in bed naked with the guy I just fucked, talking to his WIFE whos sitting across from us like were having a fucking tea party. This is interesting.

**[Branny boi]**  
This has got to be the most entertaining sentence to have ever been typed, please keep us posted

**[Ben]**  
Ned is having a conniption, bless your heart, Lya.

 

Her phone suddenly starts ringing, playing a loud, EDM cover of Ride of the Valkyries, and Ned’s face flashes up on the screen. She sighs, and slides the refuse button, slinging her legs off the bed.

“It’s been real, you two, and invite me for actual tea someday, I’ll give you my phone before I go, Elia, but my middle brother is an actual cop and he’s going to burst a vein if I don’t get home or call him back in the next fifteen minutes. I’ll get dressed and stop the police from breaking into your home for real,” she said, picking up her clothes to get dressed.

“Say hi to the kids on your way out, they might give you something to eat,” Elia commented, and Lyanna did a 180 degrees turn on her heel, dumbstruck. “Don’t worry, they heard nothing, we just got here from a trip to Sunspear. They will probably like you better than Cersei.”

“That’s not a really tall order,” Lyanna quipped, pulling down at the edges of her t-shirt, “I have direwolves. Everybody loves a horse-sized dog.”


	3. Jon/Sansa; Paying Respects

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: https://valar-morekinks.livejournal.com/8253.html?thread=3541565#t3541565
> 
> Summary: Jon's life was complicated. Family was even more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this one... could feasibly be a bigger fic but i'm not sure where to go with the jonsa soooooo

“The Lady Sansa is giving birth--” a servant told Jon, and the words froze him to his core. He thought one couldn’t be more scared than when dealing with the beings beyond the wall, who didn’t answer to no king, nor talked to anyone that didn’t have Stark blood; it was everything he wanted, to be recognized as a Stark, and even then the beings seemed conflicted. He thought about the lack of legitimacy was the reason, and the elected leader of the White Walkers had to spell it out to him.

“We have no use for claims or human rituals,” he had spoken, voice distant as an echo off snowy mountains. “We care only about the magic of ours left in your blood, the blood of the First Men and the human they called Brandon Stark who loved one of us. It is only… You feel as if there’s dragon’s blood in you. We care not much for dragons, but we shall deal with you, for the love we hold of our sister who became a Stark.”

It was the worst way to find out your entire life was a lie, one held together by straw and spit by how easily the Watch’s brothers unraveled that one particular mystery after, and the grief he felt for not only his mother and father, but for his uncle, aunt, cousin and a far removed uncle who cared for him that was there, right there in Castle Black with him. His family expanded and shrunk in that moment, terribly and painfully. Coming to Winterfell and finding that Sansa (beautiful, kind, gentle Sansa who didn’t deserve to have gone through all she did) was giving birth… It shook his soul where it was, deeply frozen but suddenly on fire.

“I shall pay my respects in the crypts. Inform the lady that as soon as I have seen to this, I shall be on my way to see her,” he informed the steward, and took a shaky breath before turning his back to the keep. He had work to do before he could truly consider this over.

_ “Go to the depths of Winterfell,” the man with the mountain echo voice said. “Pay your respects there as best as you can.” _

_ “How would I pay my respects?” He asked, worried. _

_ “You will know.” The White Walker said. _

Staring into the doors of the crypts, he could physically feel the weight of the Stark kings’ stares on him.


	4. Sansa/Domeric; what runs in the blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: https://valar-morekinks.livejournal.com/7512.html?thread=3208792#t3208792
> 
> summary: it's not only cruelty that runs in the bolton blood...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this.... deviated a bit from the prompt, and is VERY silly, but still i like it :)

Roose Bolton was very pleased with himself.

After all, Sansa Stark was a girl raised on songs and fantasies of knights, and Domeric was a Vale educated northman, which was halfway to a southern knight, minus the oaths taken in a sept.

“I shall do it, father,” Domeric said, flatly, and while Roose could see his son fighting internally with the demand, the damned honor of the Knights of the Vale imprinted on his face. “If Lady Sansa is as childish about songs as you say, it shan’t be too hard, I think.”

 

Roose Bolton was not sure this was a pleasing outcome.

He sent Domeric to foster at Winterfell with Lord Stark to, ostensibly, learn how to run a great northern keep appropriately, and ultimately to seduce Lord Stark’s eldest daughter. He was well along the former, and Roose knew that technically, he had also achieved the second. Technicalities, however, wasn’t what Lord Bolton hoped to achieve, ever.

Domeric was sitting on a branch of the Heart Tree of Winterfell’s godswoods, with a harp, playing whatever little southern song the Lady Sansa chose, while said lady sighed over his expert playing and embroidered a handkerchief with a flayed man with such precision Roose couldn’t fault the girl’s dedication to the womanly arts this far north. She truly did capture the true gruesomeness of a body without skin.

“She asked to see a deer carcass just to make the best flayed man to ever grace an embroidery,” Lord Stark informed him. “I thought she would faint, but she weathered it with the poise her septa would expect of her. My Lady wife is very proud of our Sansa.”

“It would seem she has put that wolf blood of yours to good use,” Roose commented, off-hand.

“His Grace was hoping for a betrothal between his eldest and her, but seeing them so happy I cannot bring myself to break them apart.”

“After everything, you would betroth your girl to a Bolton?”

Lord Stark looked at Roose, solemn as always, but there was a hint of mischief in there that was jarring to say.

“Why, Lord Bolton, that was very forward of you, to speak like that with your liege lord,” he said, chastising, but there was no bite. “Say you agreed to a betrothal, and they marry a few moons after Sansa flowers,” Lord Stark started, cautious. “I have… conditions.”

“What are they, my lord?”

Lord Stark all but jumped on the opportunity.

“I will not have my precious girl in any place with… suspicious activities around. And there had been dreadful rumours coming into Wintertown from merchants and smallfolk coming from the Dreadfort’s lands.”

Damn Ramsay and his awful tendencies. He would have to discreetly get rid of him.

“And some from the Dreadfort itself. Some say that there was awfully large amounts of pig hide coming out of the keep, in awfully small strips for a pig. Some even say that the late Lady Bolton was one of these pigs.” Lord Stark said, somberly. “I do not believe these rumours, of course,” he said, in a tone of someone who absolutely did believe them, “but it left me ill at ease with giving my oldest jewel to a man whose lands have such… gruesome stories running about.”

“I shall see that they stop,” Roose said, unhappy.

“It is all I want, for my children to be happy and safe,” Lord Stark commented. “Young Domeric even suggested I look for matches for Arya in Dorne, would you believe? Put forward that in one of his travels with Lord Redford’s retinue, he met some wonderful ladies they called the Sand Snakes, and told me they were wonderfully trained with the blade.”

“Prince Oberyn’s gaggle of bastard girls, to be sure,” Roose guessed.

“Aye they are, but still. Princely bastards should rank high enough that Catelyn does not complain overmuch about our daughter’s company when I suggest we send Arya to foster at Sunspear.” He paused, then continued, “your son was also as bold as to suggest sending word to Prince Oberyn as to which one of his girls was of an age with my bastard, Jon, as Dorne sees bastards differently, and as such, worthy enough of a match for an alliance.”

“I hope my son hasn’t been too bold while in your home, Lord Stark. I do believe Domeric had manners when he left the Dreadfort.”

“Not to worry, Lord Bolton. Your son has been delightful company. It’s been some time since I’ve seen someone with some shared experiences, and I’ll tell you, sharing anecdotes about Vale culture and our own perceptions as northmen is a much more pleasant thing to have in common with someone than fighting a war.”

Lord Eddard’s voice was somber, even if his tone was an attempt at cheerful.

“Oh, on the Father’s beard!” They heard Lady Sansa curse mildly, and looked at their children.

“What was it, Lady Sansa?” Domeric stopped playing and looked worried and adoringly at the girl.

“Oh, it’s nothing, Lord Domeric, I’m afraid I pricked my finger with the needle,” she said, demurely.

“May I see it, my lady?” The boy asked, and Roose could barely recognize his own son, and that’s saying something already. Six years of Vale education didn’t do the damage to his son’s personality as six months in Lord Stark’s care, that went without saying. She extended the injured hand for examination, and it spoke volumes of how wrapped around the little girl’s finger Domeric was that Lord Stark wasn’t rushing to interrupt the scene.

“It is nothing, my lord--” She started, in a worried tone that was more for Domeric’s benefit than actual worry, for she looked delighted at Domeric’s attentions and soft care.

“Nonsense, my lady. In my eyes it is a crime against divinity that the gods allow such beauty to be marred with distress,” Dometic said and something within Roose that was shriveled up and presumed dead bubbled up to the surface.

It was secondhand embarrassment, Roose noticed. He hasn’t felt this embarrassed since he courted Bethany, and even then, he was embarrassed at himself.

“Who would’ve thought this ran in the Bolton blood,” he muttered, and judging by Lord Stark’s smirk, he heard him well.


	5. Aegon VI/Jon Snow; a bad person

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt: https://valar-morekinks.livejournal.com/8859.html?thread=3690395#t3690395
> 
> summary: Some smut to go with the HIGHLY more academical-looking goddamn TOME i’m writing for another prompt.  
> Last week’s westeros news: princess visenya is actually a boy! Is madness truly inevitable in the targaryen line? What are the long term effects of being a goddamn asshole to ur children for 13 years? This ain’t the fic to find it out bc we’re into impregnation kink territory-ish but stay tuned i guess kajsdsbfdj
> 
> (the actual behemoth that is the au fill where this is inserted is... coming. dw it'll come.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> everytime aegon mentions he's a bad person, that's my conscience eating at me. pls enjoy

Aegon slammed his brother into the wall as soon as the door to his chambers closed, pressing his beautiful Aemon into the cold red stone of the castle, their lips locked into a bruising kiss that his brother was trying to resist, but weakly, as if it was but a matter of principle.

“Egg, stop,” Aemon whined into his mouth, but ground into Aegon’s hard cock as eagerly as a whore.

“Do you really want me to, sweet sister?” he asked, and Aemon dug his nails into his arm, scratching his nails all the way up to Aegon’s hair, pulling him in. Everytime he called Aemon his sister, or by his birth name, while they were rutting together, he got like this. Needier. More willing to just let Aegon take what he wanted. He knew he shouldn’t take advantage of it, he knew Aemon was trying to adjust into being Aemon, and not pretty little Visenya, but he couldn’t resist the whole shift Aemon did when he called him a princess instead of a prince.

“Noooo, Egg, we shouldn’t-- oh…”  _ Visenya _ moaned in that sweetly soft voice of hers, demurring like any proper lady that knew she should put up  _ some _ fight but that she couldn’t refuse the king, and Aegon loved it. How her body contorted instead of how Aemon stiffly followed his lead, how she lost herself in his touches instead of his brother’s endless insecurities.

He loved that they now had dragons, but he hated that the price of it was his sweet, beautiful sister. And he hated himself for thinking that; Aemon deserved better than having been stuck in the position he was by their mad father, deserved better than the state of constant anxiety he was when he was forced to live as a girl and now that he’s forced to live as a boy.

But his cock positively throbbed everytime he could bring Visenya up, his loving sister, who in another world would’ve been his wife, his warrior queen.

“What shouldn’t we, sweetling? Don’t you want this, too? I’ll stop if you want to.” He always offers to stop. It’s the least he can do when he keeps abusing his brother’s trust like this.

“No… I want you, Egg. Please…” She always begged. Sweetly, softly, with their cocks rubbing together as Visenya forced them to walk towards the bed, tugging Aegon’s shirt off. They pulled each other’s trousers off, tugging on the smallclothes, and Aegon stopped to marvel that Aemon still wore his underpants the same as when he was Visenya.

“Oooh, you minx, you were waiting for us to do this, weren’t you,” he whispered on her neck, laying on small kisses down Visenya’s throat, revelling in the way she shuddered.

“I wasn’t, you lech,” she chastised weakly, the ghost of a smile on her lips, her kiss-bitten, flushed lips Aegon loved so.

“So you played boy all day with your pretty myrish lace smallclothes because it feels good against your pretty little cock?”

Visenya covered her face, but nodded prettily. She usually would protest being reminded she couldn’t marry Aegon, but like that, with her straddling him, and Aegon completely at her mercy, she allowed it. So gracious of his delightful, sweet little sister.

Aegon rocked his hips against Visenya’s, making her breath hitch on a gasp, and tumble forward, her dark curly hair cut short but still long enough to frame her face beautifully. She still was wearing her silk shirt and undergarments, though, which irked Aegon’s dornish sensibilities to the point of chafing.

“Why don’t we get you out of these clothes, sweetling? I want to put my cock in you so bad…” He whispered in her ear and Visenya’s full body shook with barely restrained desire; a small little moan escaping her lips, her pretty pretty pouty lips he loved seeing stretched around his cock, looking into Aemon’s steely gray eyes as his little brother sucked him off before he retributed the favor. He flipped her into the mattress and ripped off her smallclothes and shirt, leaving her beautiful body exposed for him to play with, legs splayed as he put his fingers in her ass.

That was the only moment where Aemon let go, in a similar fashion of how Visenya only lost it with three fingers in her ass. A new wave of guilt assaulted Aegon; he shouldn’t be thinking of his brother and sister as separated entities. There was supposed to be only Aemon, now; Visenya in the past, buried with their mad father.

Aegon often wondered if they weren’t both touched by their family’s madness with the way they delighted in each other in the way they did, with Aemon in girlish smallclothes and acting effeminate, and Aegon continuing their father’s farce calling him a girl.

Perhaps they were both mad.

“Egg, please, can you…” Visenya’s sweetly soft voice brought him out of his thoughts, pawing and raking her nails at his arms, with something akin to desperation in her face, and he noticed just how long he might’ve been playing with her ass, since her pretty cock had wept all over her legs and belly, twitching every time he passed over her sweet spot.

“Can I what, sweet sister?” he asked, licking a stripe of her wetness from her cock’s pretty head, making her shiver and sob in want.

“Please,” she managed out, in a strangled cry and aborted hip thrust that sent her twitching.

“Please what, my love?” He leaned in, licking the wet off her legs, into her inner thigh and up her balls. “Please fuck you?” She mewled positively at the suggestion. “Please take you like a bitch in heat, until your legs give out and you can’t walk straight tomorrow because every step you take you’ll feel the ghost of my cock inside you, fucking you raw?” Visenya was practically crying at this point, nodding feverishly, and thrusting herself onto his fingers. “Aw, no, don’t cry, ‘Senya, you know I can’t take it when you cry,” he said, feeling so, so guilty, kissing the tears away, leaning in and planting kisses all over her face, fingers still working around her ass.

“‘M okay,” she managed to mumble, giving him a weak smile. “I jus’... I wanna peak on your cock, big brother, but it’s getting so, so hard to not do that…” she explained, airily. “Please, put your seed in me?”

“You want my babies, lovely?” he asked, tentatively. Aemon has never said anything like that, still hurt that he could never truly be Aegon’s queen. He had never asked for anything before, though, and Aegon was just enough of a bad person to indulge this, instead of making sure his brother knew he’d love him all the same as a boy.

“Maybe I never quickened because we didn’t put your seed in deep enough, Egg.” She mused, drowsily, putting a dainty, calloused hand on his cock, and almost making him spill on her buttocks. “If we want to test that, you’re gonna have to put your cock so deep in me I’ll feel it for a week, and will probably have to look Maester Marwyn in the eye and explain why I can’t walk when Elia and Arthur get worried.”

“Hmm, tempting, sweet sister,” he said, chuckling. The tip of his cock touched her stretched asshole, which already gaped, trying to swallow him inside her warmth. Slowly, tortuously, he pushed the head in. “What are you thinking right now, ‘Senya?”

“About getting filled with so much of your seed that no matter how much I try, I’ll be leaking for days, and feeling your seed take root and carrying our babies, with your lovely eyes, and how much I like your cock inside me,” she babbled, eyes rolling in pleasure of being filled.

“That’s such a nice thought, love, they would be such wonderful babies,” he played along, while his cock actually twitched at the thought of his lovely sister full with his seed, though he did not imagine her swelling with their baby.

He was such a horrible person for getting Aemon’s hopes up of one day becoming a true Queen to him, for undoing every bit of process he’s ever gotten with just a few kisses.

It was hard to keep feeling guilty when he finally bottomed out, feeling Aemon’s delicious hole flutter around him.

“You just have to put them in me, big brother,” Visenya said, coyly, and he never could resist that face for very long, the smirk playing on her full lips and twinkling eyes full of mirth and desire, and her pretty, curly, dark hair sprawled on the mattress, ready to be fucked.

Aegon thrust with abandon, building up a rhythm that he knew Aemon loved, as his sister--  _ brother’s _ hand went down to stroke his own cock, his other hand on the nape of Aegon’s head pulling him down for a searing kiss, pulling on his hairs by the root, causing a little jolt of pain he absolutely delighted into.

He could vaguely hear Visenya’s moanings--  _ Aemon’s _ , he needed to get better at this, he needed to be a better person than his father, but it was so, so hard when his little brother responded so beautifully at being treated as a girl, his woman, his  _ queen _ , that it was like an addiction Aegon found almost impossible to quit. No matter what everyone said, he knew deep down that Aemon would always be his little sister whom he loved and lusted after.

She was babbling incoherently now, tears welling again in her eyes, and Aegon knew this time it was because she was lost in the pleasure he knew only he could give her; only he could make his little sister cry in pleasure as a cock rammed into her with a strength that shook the bed. Aemon would be weak in the legs tomorrow, he knew, and would feign a little illness or other, claiming to having eaten something he shouldn’t, but they would know the truth.

Maybe Visenya was right, and they should just try harder to get her with child, he thought, his mind taking longer than it should to realize that he actually liked the thought of playing into his brother’s delusion, that it made him warmer and his breath more laboured, as he slowed down so as not to spill too much before her.

His hand joined Visenya’s on her cock, and she moaned a little at the feeling.

“I’m gonna get you pregnant, ‘Senya, just watch, they’re gonna regret not letting me have you as my beautiful lady wife and queen, as you should’ve been.” He whispered into her throat as he bit into her sweaty skin, feeling her cock twitch under their hands. “We’re dragons, we have dragons, they cannot stop us from doing whatever we want. We don’t answer to any gods, why should we answer to men? If I can’t have you, I’ll never marry anyone.”

He was surprised by her seed hitting his chest, as he peaked inside her, thrusting his cock as deep as it would go, pulsing all his seed inside her. Aegon’s arm gave out then, falling on Aemon heavily, knocking the air out of his brother, and Aemon laughed his beautiful laugh, a soft, throaty thing that made his heart skip a beat.

“We’re gonna need a bath, before this all sticks to us and it’s gross,” he said, and it was Aemon’s voice, still soft but lower, deeper, and Aegon’s cock made a valiant attempt at getting up again. “Oh, nice to see you’ll always be a lecher, brother mine,” he all but purred, and Aegon had to hide his face in Aemon’s shoulder to stop himself from moaning out loud. “I love that about you.”

“I meant what I said,” he whispered into the other’s skin. “If I can’t marry you, I’ll marry no one.”

“Egg, it’s okay,” Aemon said, sadly, smiling all the same. “It could be someone we like, like Dany.”

The mere suggestion of marrying their aunt sent Aegon’s temper spiking. He pulled himself up on his elbow, looking angrily at Aemon, who shrank into himself a little.

“You can marry Dany if you want, but as for me, I only want you, Aemon. Visenya. Whatever your name is, I want you and you alone.” His face softened, and he pushed a wandering hair strand behind Aemon’s ear. “I know, they’ll force me to marry, my wishes notwithstanding. They’ll force a marriage on you too, unless you wish to be a Kingsguard or a Watch’s Brother, which I doubt you’d want… You take any vows you make way too seriously, little brother…” Aegon leaned down, touching their noses.

“I… I’d take marrying if that would get me children, Aegon. I know I can’t bear any. It’s just a silly dream, now,” he said, wistfully, and Aegon’s heart nearly broke, and he leaned further to touch their foreheads. “Makes one wish they were truly a dragon, really,” Aemon laughed, humorlessly, “Marry the Tyrell girl, Egg.”

“What’s with you being so invested in who I marry, Aemon?” It was a bit overbearing.

“Well. You can leave me be your spinster brother, if you want. But they’ll never stand for the king being unwed. The Lannisters do not need a reward for laying low after the rebellion, Dorne is appeased that Elia wasn’t set aside, the current Lord Stark loves me like a son, and the Riverlands and Vale will follow the North’s lead. That leaves the teetering loyalty of the Reach. You can have that by marrying Lady Margaery. Plus, her brother shares much of your… preferences, dearest brother. She’ll understand if you need me there for… moral support, I believe.”

Aemon had an impish smile on his face, and Aegon did not like that one bit.

“Funny you mention my love for your pretty little ass, and none of your predilection for my cock up your pretty little ass, little brother, one would almost think you can get it up to fuck girls,” he japed. Aemon turned bright red and looked away. “Oh, you little slut. You’ve dabbled in pretty girls while you were away at Winterfell, didn’t you?”

Aemon huffed.

“Well, northern boys certainly are handsome, and beards against one’s thighs surely feels good,” he said, and Aegon let out an indignant yelp, “but at that time, you could all but feel the expectations of the realm that I didn’t turn out queer from Father’s stupidity. But no, I did not go to any brothels in Wintertown, if that’s what you’re asking, though Theon certainly dragged me to the doors of many.” At this, his brother turned even redder than he was, hands uncurling from their cuddling to cover his face, stickiness be damned. “I waited until our visit to Dorne, to ask for… more specialized counsel from your cousins and uncle. Tyene is… very flexible.”

Aegon stood there, gobsmacked for a second.

_ “That’s my cousin, Aemon!” _ He all but shrieked, mildly horrified, the words slipping out in a weird, familial possessivity that he wasn’t aware he had. “Ewww, how could you, she’s--”

“Well, nice to meet you, pot, you certainly got washed with steel wool, but there’s some soot under you still,” Aemon drawled, unimpressed, still blushing, “my name is kettle. It was the once, to figure out how one even did that. And to be honest, I… it was rather fun. And I really want family of my own one day. Children of my own body. I’d… like that. Or dote on your children. Even if I can’t bear them for you, Aegon, I would still like to see you happy with a family.”

He was so earnest saying it, that Aegon couldn’t help himself but kiss his beautiful younger brother with a heart of gold. 

“I’ll think about it. For now, let’s enjoy what’s left of our night, alright?”

He ended up offering a betrothal to Lord Tyrell in the following afternoon.


	6. Catelyn Stark, Jon Snow gen: Dancing with Ghosts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt: https://valar-morekinks.livejournal.com/4550.html?thread=2003654#t2003654
> 
> Summary: catelyn needs a jumpstart to start doing the math and asking questions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i've always thought lady catelyn was smarter than that, but jealousy makes fools of us all i guess.

She had no idea what brought her to go down the crypts of Winterfell. She was the Lady Stark, true, but she was also a stranger here, with no true ties to the people entombed here. This made her all the more wary, for the very air of the place seemed hostile to her, the cold draft of the door and the sulphuric smell of the underground springs that eroded their way through the older parts of the catacombs flooding her senses.

She stopped in front of Lord Rickard, Lord Brandon and Lady Lyanna’s tombs. Her goodfather, goodsister and former betrothed all looked at her, and she could feel the weight of their stares as a gust of wind blew, so cold it seeped through her furs, and made itself at home in her bones. The candles that were lit mere seconds ago blown out, and the crypt wing got even colder and darker, despite her torch.

Sighing, Catelyn picked up a leftover kindle from when Ned would come down to pay his respects, but on her way to straightening up to light it on her torch, she noticed something on the tomb of her goodsister.

It was as if someone had taken a pickaxe to the base of Lyanna’s tomb, opened a niche and then crudely put some smaller tomb together, but by the looks of it, it wasn’t supposed to be something permanent. The front panel seemed scavenged from the remains of the old rock face. From looking up, it blended well enough that no one questioned it. You couldn’t see it very well in the nearly permanent shadows of the crypts unless you kneeled down, and not a lot of people had cause to do so. The clay used to seal the little entombment seemed to have come from the hot springs two corridors up, for it was black, like the stone the statues were made of.

She moved the rocks, and guiltily undid the rough masonry around the front panel, which slid forth soundlessly. There seemed to be a script in the inside, and Catelyn soon realized what this was: Lyanna had a child by the Dragon Prince, which died with her.

Disgusted at herself by the desecration of the tomb, she hurried to the place by the entrance where the servants kept the tools for keeping the statues and tombs in shape, and picked up a bucket and some tinders, and headed for the ruined catacombs of the families of the Hungry Wolf and his sons. The entire hall of statues seemed to glare accusingly at her, as she hunkered in an unladylike manner, gathering the black clay of the surface away in order to take lumps of the foul-smelling, harder clay underneath. Having done so, she carried the bucket and the torch into the current Stark hall, propped the torch on the wall, used a tinder to light up the candles and kneeled on the floor, setting to work and put the panel up again.

_ Aemon Targaryen, Beloved Son and Beloved Nephew _ , the panel read, and as Catelyn was putting it back, she noticed there wasn’t a bone crate inside, or a bejewelled ash urn as was the Targaryen way. Inside was a wrought iron chest, with inlays in the shape of wolves and dragons that were filled with gold and silver filigrees. It was the right size for a baby toy chest, albeit a richly encrusted one.

Curiosity won, and Catelyn couldn’t help but fear that Ned had interred his nephew in his own plaything, as if he only had the materials for one casket.

She wasn’t expecting to see inside, instead of a shrivelled infant cadaver, a dragon egg, letters in two distinct handwritings, and a royal document, proclaiming any child born by Lyanna Stark and Prince Rhaegar Targaryen as a legitimate Prince or Princess of the Blood.

There was no sign there was ever a child’s cadaver in the tomb.

Her mind was racing; wherever could the child be? If King Robert caught wind of them, they would be dead faster than they could reach them. A child like that, if still alive, would be in greater and greater danger of being found, and her husband, so dedicated to family he brought his  _ bastard _ to Winterfell, couldn’t even--

_ His bastard. _

Catelyn’s spiraling thoughts halted then, and she stared a little longer at the toy chest. It was time to write her uncle Brynden some probing letters, which are probably a good fifteen years too late. She trusted her uncle had a better memory than her Lord father, though.

Even with just the inkling of suspicions, Catelyn started noticing things about Ned’s bastard. How his eyes were not even remotely alike Lady Ashara’s, being too almond-shaped when hers were more rounded, but not as downcast as Ned’s and Brandon’s before him. The shape of his jaw, which Catelyn always put stock on being like Brandon’s, was too  _ delicate _ , and he was shaping up to be less burly than Robb. She knew the boy was getting freaked out by her staring, and that she probably should stop, but the more she looked the more she found pieces of the former royal family in him.

It got so bad that he even felt in the obligation of saying that whatever she thought he did do, he didn’t, and to please believe it was Theon’s idea. She probably scared the boy more when, instead of walking away like she always did, she assured him she knew he did nothing, as Robb tried to be sneaky later and asked if she was feeling well.

Nearly a fortnight later, she got her answer.

Her uncle couldn’t remember rightly whether or not Ned had ever even laid with a camp follower, and there wasn’t enough time in the three moons between Ned leaving Storm’s End to engender a living baby.

_ ‘I do not believe he broke faith with you then, since he hasn’t broken faith with you since. The kind of man who begets bastards doesn’t stop merely for the presence of his Lady Wife. Our king being a shining example of everything Lord Stark should be had he truly been that kind of man.’ _

She ignored her uncle’s request for more information of her findings went ignored. He would have to wait until they visited Riverrun again, or until he lost patience and decided to visit  _ them _ in Winterfell.

 

Ned didn’t know where his wife’s new behavior came from.

One day, she’s acting normal, doting on her children and ignoring Jon altogether. He comes back from visiting with Lord Glover, inspecting the lumber reserves, as lord Glover had reported some anomalies that turned out to be a couple of opportunistic beavers, and arrives just in time to see his lady wife offering the desserts plate to Jon, who looks surprised and scared, and excuses himself from the table, doing his utmost best not to run.

“What happened while I was out, Cat?” he asked his wife, afterwards, while they were both splayed in bed, under the furs.

“Nothing,” she lied. “Just. Decided to take to heart what you once said; you cannot blame a child for their parents’ mistakes. It’s been fifteen years. In light of what happened to Lord Bolton’s son, and how horrified that boy was, I decided… It was time to let it go.” She sighed, turning on her side, into Ned’s side. “He’s likely more interested in the music lessons I’ve allowed him to take lately than being Lord of Winterfell.”

He resisted the urge of telling her he told her so. He was less pleased with the new developments when he found Jon sitting with Septa Mordane (who looked far too displeased for someone who finally had an applied student), plucking away to Jenny’s song, although not as competently as his father did.

He was relieved when Jon decided to redirect his efforts to the guitar; Lya’s ghost following him everywhere was already one judgemental ghost too much.


	7. Alys Karstark/Sigorn of Thenn; Foundations of love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt: https://valar-morekinks.livejournal.com/8253.html?thread=3582013#t3582013
> 
> summary: sigorn and alys plotless fluff. i love them. pls love them too.

At first they only work well in bed.

It’s not as if Alys is completely immune to Northern preconceptions of the Free Folk. She expected her new husband Sigorn to be completely useless in the workings of a keep, and was fully prepared to not only be stuck running the castle on her own while he went around dishonoring her, but also relegated to a marriage that was loveless, albeit with great sex attached.

It didn’t help Sigorn only spoke broken Common, and was only truly fluent in the old tongue. It was sweet that he was trying, though, and when she stopped to think about the day of her marriage, he did come a long way. She also made an effort, to learn the old tongue, little by little, from tidbits she picked up from Sigorn and other Thenns.

Looking at the Free Folk the Karhold now housed, it was easy to see why Jon Snow recommended the match. The Thenns were the most lordly of them all, and had taken well to dealing with the smallfolk, even if through mummery. She was proud of the peace and arrangements they were able to keep, and most Thenns seemed content with the better forges of the south, and the better farmland. The ones who disagreed still kept their peace, because apparently Sigorn told them to, and being their Magnar, Sigorn’s word was law.

One night, after a coupling, tired and sweating, surprisingly, she asked him why his people treat him in such high regard.

“I’m Magnar,” he started, then paused, thinking of the words. “Magnar is speaker for gods. Magnevr, that’s Alys, is also speaker for gods. They come to me for justice, they come to you for advice. I make war, you make peace. It is the old way.”

“What does Magnevr means? Lady?” She asked, curious.

“Yes and no,” he chuckled, and she bristled a little until he placed a placating kiss on her cheek. “Mag is Great, Nar is person, Nevr means mother.”

“That’s a big title, wouldn’t it fit better  _ after _ I actually become a mother?”

Sigorn shook his head, playfully pulling on Alys’ locks, her loose curls always a fascinating thing to him.

“Magnar wife is mother to clan. When we marry with the gods looking, you became mother of Thenn.” His face pinched into a face Alys came to recognize as his thinking face, then softened. “It is big title. I still think Alys is worthy of it.”

She smiled, trying to hide her blush into Sigorn’s chest, feeling all this affection she didn’t notice she harbored for him until now bloom into her heart.

Maybe they started off more lust than love, but maybe they could build something of it.


	8. Jon Snow/Aegon VI/Daenerys Targaryen; the focus of their love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt: https://valar-morekinks.livejournal.com/8190.html?thread=3294462#t3294462
> 
>  
> 
> summary: Jon finds himself in a conundrum of having to choose between keeping his dignity or telling Tormund what ails him. he chooses the latter.
> 
> also a bonus that is more or less triple the size of the fill but let's not get attached to details.

Jon had no idea how he came to be in bed with the King and Queen of Westeros, but he was oddly okay with it.

He started to have a problem with it when it started becoming a habit.

Tormund, the big oaf, had no idea why that was, and kept drinking his goat’s milk with Jon near a fire in Winterfell’s Great Hall, and laughing something fierce.

“So what’s the problem, lad, you three are all as pretty as girls, no wonder ye all mistake each other and stumble into one them beds,” he said, wise-like, stroking his beard, a huge, dumb grin on his huge, dumb, old face.

“Queen Daenerys is a girl,” he pointed out, weakly.

“Ah, so both o’ youse’s going in thinkin’ yer takin’ two girls to bed, while stupid drunk, and yer kneeler queen benefits. A woman after me own heart, that one,” Tormund laughed, while Jon groaned. “Unless yer sayin’ you can tell the kneeler king is a lad, and still wants to bed him. In that case, I got no advice for ye, King Crow.”

“It is a good thing, then, that I never need your advice, Tormund,” he groused, “only your goat’s milk and tankard.”

He sensed them before he saw them, Ghost’s senses alerting him to the distinctive smell of dragonbreath and faint scent of lilacs underneath.

“Har! If it ain’t the kneeler king and queen! We was jus’ talkin’ about yer graces!” Tormund greeted, and Jon still did not move.

“If we could have words with King Jon, I believe we have not quite finished going through supplies and resources yesterday,” Aegon said, smoothly,  _ too smoothly _ , and he knew they wouldn’t be doing any talks this night. They never did, unless it was to spew filth and tease one another, mainly the queen and king teasing  _ him _ . Bran’s declaration of his parentage to the three of them, along with word of where to find the proof, didn’t dissuade that one bit.

_ “Come here into Auntie’s arms, Jon,” Dany said, teasingly, on her knees, rubbing her crotch into Aegon’s manhood, while his brother ( _ brother _ ) worked his ass open with his fingers, nearly undoing him each time his probing pushed on a sensitive spot or circled his rim. _

_ “Yeah, Jon,” Aegon laughed softly, his breath ghosting over his thighs, “go sit on big brother’s lap, sweetling.” _

_ He had only ever kissed a man before; his pretty steward Satin, who was also very capable despite what the other brothers said; and now here he was, eagerly scooting forward on his knees over  _ his brother’s _ body, while said brother’s cock twitched as he touched its head to his hole, and his  _ aunt _ sat on his lap, gripping him by the stem and sliding him inside her effortlessly, as if they were made to be with each other. _

_ He was inclined to believe so, when thinking that these were his brother and aunt who were married to each other did nary a thing to dissuade his manhood from rising, and only made him harder and wilder. Each thrust into Dany pulled him off Egg, and each thrust into Egg pulled him out of Dany, and he whined at the loss and fullness each time, riding his brother like a stallion and fucking his aunt like a common whore. _

_ “Isn’t he so beautiful like this, wife?” Aegon asked, hips bucking into Jon, who cried out nearly in tears from the nerve wracking pleasure. _

_ “Our little wild wolf, mad for his aunt’s cunt and his brother’s cock,” she breathed out, almost in a cooing manner, and Jon took one of her breasts to mouth, sucking and licking, hoping to mark her skin, feeling on edge already. _

_ “He just can’t resist fucking us, dearest aunt. Can you, little brother?” _

_ He shook his head as best he could, losing his senses to what he knew was his end, because surely, no man was made to withstand this much pleasure without dying, and he had an already flimsy hold on his second life as it was. _

_ “He’s gonna spill his seed in me soon, Egg, look at him.” He heard Dany say. _

_ “Oh, what a good little brother, don’t you think, Dany? Fucking his brother’s wife while his brother fucks him, because he’s just the best little brother, isn’t he?” _

_ He spills right then and there, Aegon calling him a good little brother undoing him in ways he later tried to unravel to no avail. He was of the blood of the dragon, and blood called to blood. _

_ Aegon pushed him off his cock and laid him and Dany gently on the bed, and by the noises his aunt made, he could guess Aegon was merely taking his rights, while he tried not to crush Dany under his barely-awake weight. _

_ “You’re going to lick my cunt clean of the excess, aren’t you, Jon?” she asked, sweetly, and Jon nodded dumbly, more drooling than mouthing at her breasts while she laughed, breathless, as Aegon spilled into her too and nearly crushed them both under his weight. _

He shook himself off his reminiscence, and bid his goodbyes to Tormund. With the way the queen and king were staring at him, almost predatorily, he was very sure that no talk was to be accomplished whatsoever.

\---------------------------------

“Dearest Visenya, how kind of you to join us.” Daeron’s wispy lilts of a lifetime speaking Valyrian were almost musical in a way. She liked hearing him speak and he knew, which was frankly mortifying in a way; Daeron’s inhuman good looks were a danger all of its own.

“Please, join us, sweet sister,” Aegon said, accent much, much closer to southron, thanks to Jon Connington (and wasn’t that a queer feelings, thanking Jon Connington for something). “We were just about to discuss the line of succession.”

They’ve been going over it all day. Daeron had his daughters, and Aegon had the armies. Daeron was known by Westeros as being the Last Dragon, whereas Westerosi nobility accepted Aegon much easier than a man that was practically a foreigner to them. She grimaced when the council suggested she should take the role of Queen, for her also mostly unquestionable lineage, but also for the opportunity it presented to more Lords to have a shot at securing a betrothal to the royal family.

Lyarra was terrified her night was about to become more of the same. She did not enjoy politics, and did not particularly want to go South and be consumed by the nest of vipers that was court.

“Please, I wish to wait for any such talks to take place after supper, politics leave me nauseous and unable to eat,” she asked, eyeing the tray of foods.

“Oh, no, we do not wish to discuss the politics of the line of succession, dearest niece,” Daeron said, smiling, and Lyarra’s heart did a little jump.

“We have reached an agreement earlier, lovely sister,” Aegon supplied, helpfully, as she picked apart a piece of bread. “Our dearest uncle here will be King, but since he believes he cannot sire children anymore, our line will continue our family.”

She nodded, eating a piece of meat, and then nearly choked as the meaning of Aegon’s words sunk in.

“Our  _ line _ ? I thought we were to be betrothed to other noble families?” She inquired, looking between her uncle and brother, feeling a blush covering her face.

“Don’t you think it’s only fair that, since our family was the only one besides Stark who heeded the Night’s Watch call even before the danger was at our doorstep, we reward ourselves?” Aegon asked with an impish grin. “Besides, there are dragons in the world again, sweet sister. We should keep the line as pure as we can, from now on, don’t you think?” He was leaning into her personal space, with a lazy smile full of promises Lyarra didn’t want to know about, and she  leaned back, unfortunately right into Daeron.

“Dragons are family, just like that direwolf of yours, so don’t you think family should keep family?” Her uncle was smiling against her neck, and it made her body flush hotter with the beginnings of desire. She remembered the nights she stole away in the war, when she thought she wasn’t going to live to see the dawn, with each one of them, and finally realized what they were about to do.

“I am not a whore,” she stammered out, trying to keep any dignity she had as Aegon’s hand settled on her thigh, as she tried to lean away from them both.

“We know, ‘Senya. But you’re ours and ours alone.”

There is a lapse in her memory of how they came about to be naked and her dress practically torn apart on the floor, but she’s in the middle of two so very attractive men, her brother and uncle, who are practically fighting their way through her shift and smallclothes as their strong arms support her body so she’s not touching the mattress at all; just suspended in the air between them, as Daeron lifts her legs to rest her thighs against his shoulders, and she practically howls when he licks her folds.

Having Daeron kissing her womanhood always felt like someone had set her body on fire, and she briefly wondered if this counted as awakening the dragon.

“No, no, stop, I-- I want to…” she trailed off, trying to get Daeron off her, but he merely looked her in the eye, licking at a point in her that had her eyes rolling back as Aegon chuckled in her ear, keeping her torso suspended by hooking his arms under hers and using the position to fondle her breasts.

“You want to what, sister dearest?”Aegon questioned, and she nearly jumped out of her skin as a jolt of pleasure nearly undid her, and she stupidly tried to close her legs, to Daeron’s amusement. She could feel his breathy laugh caressing her folds after all.

“I want to lay down on the bed,” she said, and it was the closest she could get yet to the dream she had of being pressed between her brother and uncle, yet. She knew they would indulge her if she managed to ask them, but all words seemed intent on getting stuck in Lyarra’s throat, a thing she thought not really possible since she was not a maid anymore, hasn’t been a maid longer than Daeron has had his daughters.

Lyarra had been more Free Folk than northerner for years now, had been practically adopted by Tormund Giantsbane, the gods rest his soul, has even had and mourned a son, and yet, asking two men that were clearly very interested in her to make her howl like a wolf was too hard a task. Her mouth wouldn’t form around the words, and she wasn’t sure if it was because of her being shy, or because Daeron’s mouth was on her teats, and Aegon’s fingers resumed the work her uncle’s tongue did, not to mention her brother’s cock pressing firmly against her backside, and the view of Daeron’s cock standing free and proudly between his legs.

“Someone’s eager for something, it seems,” Aegon whispered to Daeron, spreading her folds so, in the cool air, she could feel her wetness dripping slowly.

“Shouldn’t leave our little Princess waiting, then, should we?” Daeron said, purple eyes glinting in the candlelight.

“Though, we haven’t heard from my sister what it was that she wanted, dear uncle,” Egg answered, and Lyarra didn’t know where to push herself when Daeron scooted closer.

“Ah, yes, the elusive will of dearest Visenya.” He chuckled, deeply and the sound went straight to that one point in her cunt that Aegon insisted in rubbing. “What is it you desire, dear niece? Does it have something to do with whatever dream makes you moan at night?”

She groaned, leaning forward while pushing her ass into Aegon’s groin, resting her forehead on Daeron’s shoulder as both men laughed at her expense. She should’ve known she would be sleeptalking; when she still had her wolf dreams, she used to growl and kick Ygren in her sleep, so it is small wonder she was moaning their names in her sleep.

“Oh? I sleep like a rock, so please, do tell what you dream of, baby sister, I’m dying to know what filthy fantasy is lying dormant inside your pretty little body,” Aegon said, slipping a finger inside her, the callous at the base of it rubbing pleasantly against her most sensitive spot.

“I dream about you-- you two--” she paused, trying to still herself, hand going out to stop Aegon’s from moving lest she peaks right then.

“The both of us? I’m honored,” Daeron purred, tilting her head a bit more to the side so he could bite her neck. “And what are we doing that I’ve seen both of you practically having sex in your sleep when I went to fetch you two one morning for breakfast?”

Even Aegon had a shred of shame to spare, it seemed, because he hid his face on her back, into Lyarra’s wild curls that he loved to wind his fingers in whenever he managed to get her on her knees.

“The both of you,” she attempted explaining again, “and you’re both, uh-- you’re both… in… me?” she finishes in a small voice, and for a moment she thinks they didn’t hear what she said, until she hears Aegon snickering.

“Like yesterday, sweet sister?”

“No, uhm. You’re both… ah… both in the same?” She squirmed when Aegon pulled her onto his lap, pushing her hips back while Daeron pulled her into a kiss, and she felt the tip of Aegon’s cock slip inside her, as wet as she was, without much resistance.

“As delicious as your ass is, I don’t think it’d fit, ‘Senya,” Aegon muttered against her hair, and it took her an embarrassingly long time of figuring out the logistics to do just that to realize that he was teasing her.

“I should make Daeron tie you up on the bedpost, unable to touch yourself and make  _ you _ watch for that, Egg, but I’m feeling rather generous right now,” she huffed as seriously as she could as her brother pushed in slowly inside her, dragging the feeling out.

“Maybe that’s what I should do to you, dearest niece, and then make you watch as I make a mess out of Aegon…” Her uncle said, trailing off before he could say the terrible, terrible joke they came up yesterday, when Egg spilled his seed so forcefully into Lyarra, they called him ‘scrambled Egg’, referring to his dazed state, and Daeron asked if he could have him for breakfast. Just like then, Aegon now squeaked indignantly in protest. Her brother did not particularly enjoy bedding men, but he made an exception for Daeron only if Lyarra was involved, which was just fine by her. Daeron had seemed a bit put out, but agreed, but could not stop teasing the young Prince of Dragonstone.

_ “Who knows, one day he might say yes,” _ Daeron had told her.

“You know damn well that I’m not interested in you or your cock, Daeron, fuck off,” Aegon complained, pushing Lyarra off him slowly just as he slipped in. It was maddening.

“What I want would require your cock damn near Dae’s, Egg. So, you still going to say that, big brother?” She knew she was pulling on Aegon’s strings like that, but she couldn’t resist it, not when it made his hips stutter deliciously and his arms to clench around her. Her cunt twitched at the feeling of her brother’s strong arms on her skin, and she pulled Daeron closer. The only thing better than one strong, handsome man naked and touching her was two of them.

“As long as I can be inside you, sweet sister, I’ll suffer our uncle,” he declared, for once not protesting that Daeron was hugging him too.

“Then be good, and  _ share _ , dearest nephew,” Daeron huffed, putting his weight forward and forcing the three of them down.

The stretch as Daeron pushed his cock inside her was nearly unbearable. At one point, she thought it wasn’t going to fit inside, that they were too big. And then she realized she only felt that way because Daeron was going at an ungodly slow pace.

“Oh, for the gods’ sake, Dae, I’ve pushed out much bigger things than two cocks, just put it in!” She all but yelled, and the man stopped altogether, stunned. “Dae!”

Daeron chuckled, shaking his head, and pushed in faster. She felt a tear run down her face, but then, he was in, they both were inside her, and it felt even better than in her dreams, the feeling,  _ the fullness _ of it, and how they shifted inside her when she bent her back to turn and kiss Aegon, it was just pure bliss.

She tried her best to move, but everytime she did she teetered closer and closer to that point where she would probably pass out on them, so she tried to not do that, leaving the men to do their jobs. The noise they made as they moved in their practically argued over rhythm should be disgusting, instead serving only to heighten their pleasure in a perverse way.

For all his protests, Aegon spilled first, much faster than he normally did, much messier than normally and even more than the night before, so much that he even didn’t protest as much when Daeron slid his mouth from Lyarra’s to his.

With Aegon slipping out, Lyarra was manhandled into all fours over her brother, lying on top of him while the only thing holding up her ass in the air was Daeron’s strong arms, and it didn’t take much until she was squirming and her cunt twitching almost painfully in pleasure around Daeron’s cock, while he spilled his seed deep inside her, deeper than he’s done before.

“Was it just like in your dreams, ‘Senya?” Aegon asked, sleepy, not aware enough to protest when Daeron slinked off her and onto the side Lyarra didn’t go to, choosing instead to pull her closer, chest to her back, taking his time putting his still half-hard cock right in between her ass cheeks.

“Could improve,” she answered cheekily, and they chuckled, before succumbing to sleep.

She could barely take a step before remembering what they did in the night, feeling raw and strangely empty the next morning, but she figured it was worth it.


	9. Aegon VI/Jon Snow; playing unworthy and dragonknight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt: https://valar-morekinks.livejournal.com/8190.html?thread=3309566#t3309566
> 
>  
> 
> summary: they're the unworthy and the dragonknight come again, the courtiers whispered, but they don't think those Aegon and Aemon got along quite as they did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> back on my egg/jon bullshit i had to actually do some research ("research") for this one are yall proud?
> 
> ~~"andy u always do research" says ppl who stuck with me since the AOT phase~~

“On your knees, baby brother.”

He ordered him, and he did it. Aemon dropped on his knees, and they were still sweaty from sparring, and sneaking around to run from their Kingsguards and even for a quick fuck behind the stables, so he should feel worse for making Aemon do it. But he was sitting on the Iron Throne, and the fact it still didn’t cut him as he planned to fuck his brother’s mouth while sitting on it, nor did it cut Aemon’s knees as he kneeled before him fully intending to disgrace his king was… somewhat telling and a complete surprise, that the throne considered sword-swallowers like them (even if they did bed their wives and enjoyed it) worthy of ruling.

“Whatever my king wishes,” Aemon intoned so seriously, Aegon did a double check to see if he was truly alright with this still, and not going along with it because Aegon was, indeed, his king. It was only when he saw the corners of his brother’s mouth threatening to lift up that he relaxed, rolling his eyes.

“You know it,” he muttered, haughtily, before pulling on one of Aemon’s dark curls, out of brotherly spite. “Now, get on with it, Aems, I heard only good things about this mouth of yours from your wife.”

Aegon was sure that the court had all kinds of rumours about him and Aemon’s wife, their aunt Princess Daenerys. They frequently compared him to Aegon the Unworthy in whispers, and Aemon to the Dragonknight. Not that he would ever be able to get near Dany if she did not wish it so, because his brother, as much as he loved bedding and being bedded by Aegon, would cut Aegon’s cock off if he so much dared to touch his wife in a way she didn’t like, but courtiers are fickle creatures that are probably oh-so-bored, so he let it slide. He was also sure that some of the rumours, namely the ones about Princess Daenerys being greedy because Aegon and Aemon were most likely prodigious lovers, came from Aegon’s own wife, Queen Margaery, who just loved adding to the fire, mostly out of her own boredom.

Boredom ruled most of court’s actions, he found.

Aemon’s fingers were deft undoing his trousers’ lacing, and he slightly shifted in the uncomfortable seat to allow him to remove his cock from its constraints better.

“Eager, aren’t we,” he heard Aemon tease, but in a whisper.

“If you’re mouthing off, you’d do better putting these pretty lips of yours to use, little brother,” he warned, impatient.

In fact, this wasn’t the first time Aemon sucked his cock, and likely wouldn’t be the last (even if it would probably be the last in the throne room). But everytime he saw those pouty, beautiful lips touching his manhood, it did things to Aegon’s insides. Especially when Aemon decided to be less than charitable to him, starting off licking the underside of his cock’s head and swallowing him all the way to the root before pulling off to lick at the head.

“Better, brother mine?”

He growled, so, so tempted he was to grab Aemon’s head with both hands, pulling at his pretty curls, and thrusting his cock as if his brother’s mouth were his ass, or one of their wives’ cunts, but it wasn’t yet time. He wanted to draw this out as much as was possible, before their guards found them. He was fairly sure Ser Jaime or Ser Oswell or both already had, and were rolling their eyes by the throne room’s entrance.

“Seriously, Aems, you’re a damn menace. Makes me want to just shove your face in my crotch and fuck your mouth until you can’t speak tomorrow.” They’ve never done that before, as much as Aegon’s blood roared at him to do it, to wipe the smug smile off Aemon’s face, to take what he wanted because he’s a dragon and dragons do not answer to gods nor men, but he stayed his hips. “You’re smiling quite a lot for a man on his knees, little brother.”

“Good thing I came prepared to let you,” Aemon quipped back, pulling a vial of some murky white liquid from his shirt’s pocket, uncorking and downing it in one go.

“The fuck was that?”

“I asked Marwyn for something that would stop nausea. He looked at me weird, but complied; I think he’s onto us,” he chuckled. Aegon was fairly sure the entirety of Maegor’s holdfast was onto them, with how much Aemon refused to be quiet, but let it go.

“So, you want me to fuck your pretty mouth hoarse, then?” He smiled a predatory smile, and for a second it looked like Aemon might back out, before he steeled himself up, looking at Aegon with his shiny grey eyes with purple flecks that he loved to see staring up at him dazed by desire.

“You did say you wanted me to put my mouth to better use, Your Grace.”

“So I did,” he mused, carding a hand through Aemon’s curls before gripping his hair at the back of his neck, and pulling him forward. “So open up, baby brother.”

Aemon complied, making a neat ‘o’ with his mouth and sticking his tongue out flatly, to tease at the underside of Aegon’s cock. He slowly pushed his little brother in, relishing in the friction, and Aemon nuzzled at his crotch when he hit the back of his throat, swallowing around him, and  _ oh _ , did that make Aegon painfully aware he was but a man, with a man’s will, and seeing his brother’s eyes go dazed while he hurriedly undid his own pants nearly broke him.

He swore, he wanted to start slow. Get Aemon used to having his cock that far back in his throat. But every time he pulled his brother’s face from his crotch, Aemon made pitiful, lusty noises that were a cross between gasping for air and a true moan, and he twisted his tongue around Aegon’s cock so wonderfully. Was it truly any surprise, he reasoned with himself, that every time he unsheathed himself, he went back in a little faster?

Before long, he was thrusting into Aemon’s mouth almost in abandon, watching as his brother’s beautiful grey eyes dazed over and over, as he tried to focus, going a bit red from not remembering to breathe at best, and foregoing breathing to try and swallow Aegon’s cock all over again at worst, while he worked his own hand over his cock. He pulled and pushed, looking as little tears formed at the corner of Aemon’s eyes, and tried to stop, to ask if he was truly alright, but Aemon made an indignant little hoarse noise and forced himself back on his big brother’s cock, so Aegon figured he could take it as he truly let go, losing himself to the feeling of tongue and a bit of teeth that only added to his pleasure, slowing only once he was about to spill, to give Aemon some breathing space before he shoved his cock all the way in, spilling his seed down Aemon’s throat as his brother swallowed desperately.

He was at least caring enough to pull back and leave one last spill on Aemon’s pretty face, to which he protested like a naughty maid the morning of their wedding (and wouldn’t he know about that, as Marge had relentlessly chastised him over spilling a bit on her hair that day).

“I have nothing to clean it with,” he whined, cock still proudly standing as Aegon pulled him up on his lap.

“You drooled all over yourself already, Aems,” he pointed out, and the other blushed horribly.

“Worth it,” he said, defiant, “look me in the eye and say you don’t think that too, Egg.”

He pulled his brother in, licking his own cum off his cheek before locking their lips into a fierce kiss.

“I’ll tell you what, little brother. We’re going to sneak back into your quarters,” he whispered, leaning into Aemon and putting one hand on Aemon’s hard cock. “Once we’re there, I want you to call your lovely wife, and as you fuck her, you tell her what we just did as I put my fingers in your ass.” Aemon whimpered at the thought and his cock twitched under Aegon’s light caresses. “What do you say?”

“Please, big brother.”


	10. Ned/Cat; my husband's brother

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt: https://valar-morekinks.livejournal.com/4550.html?thread=2007238#t2007238
> 
> summary: AU AF: a world in which robert managed to make *some* impression on ned. Ned’s impeccable honor has a chink and it’s called ‘exceedingly pretty and smart women’. “They’ll never be able to prove it anyway.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this isn't finished, per se, but i don't know how properly to finish it so let's pretend they did the do and move along with me dumping the ready fills in here asdjlfkdjgfj

Catelyn looked out the window, to the courtyard where the Stark men and Lyanna flittered about, Lyanna with her bow and arrow, the men practicing with their swords. She sighed, turning to her embroidery, a swaddling cloth for a baby that wouldn’t come.

It’s been moons, almost half a year, since she married Brandon, and for all his enthusiasm bedding her at first, she found that in the end, Lyanna’s words when she protested her betrothal to Robert Baratheon ringed as true now as they did then. She pretended not to hear to the kitchen maids’ gossip, but she couldn’t ignore when her husband came back past the hour of the bat, smelling of ale and whores. She had decided early on that she would only sleep where her husband was, but after the first fortnight of this, she decided to move into her Lady’s quarters. Quarters which would smell of loneliness and broken promises, her bed as cold as her.

That was, until Lord Eddard was summoned back, to help his brother rule the North. To be “the Stark in Winterfell” as Lyanna was still fighting her brother for a northern betrothal or simply  _ anyone _ who wasn’t Lord Baratheon, and Benjen was but a boy.

“A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Lady Catelyn,” he said, with a polite smile and a bow, kissing her hand, southron manners and showing every bit of his education at the Eyrie.

“The pleasure is mine, Lord Eddard,” she responded at the time, trying to not let her tone betray how her heart beat faster at his knightly bearings, and indeed, that night, the pleasure was all hers in her dreams.

She sighed and looked out the Lady’s ballroom again, only to see that the courtyard was missing one Stark. Lord Eddard was nowhere to be seen, and looked down to see she missed a stitch in her distraction.

And then she missed another stitch as a voice, much closer to her than previously, spoke.

“It’s a tragedy that you don’t yet have a little nephew of mine in that, Lady Catelyn.”

She jumped a bit in surprise, and then covered her mouth to stifle the unsightly laugh that threatened to come out.

“Thank you, Lord Eddard, but no matter how much I try, my Lord husband and I have… been remiss at naught but this one of our duties.

“A shame, truthfully. If the children came out with your hair, they would be the most precious jewels of Winterfell.”

“I thought northmen had no use for adornments,” she quipped.

“Embellishments of that sort are useless, to us,” he agreed solemnly, “however, it does not mean we cannot appreciate beauty, my Lady.”

She blushed prettily, and to her surprise, so did Lord Eddard. She chuckled, then, realizing he was not intentionally trying to flirt with his brother’s wife, but realizing she liked it very much.

It was a thrill she did not have normally, a rush through her veins, of something. Something she thought long gone and resigned to a life without. It was that adolescent flush of passion, she realized, sneaking around her husband’s lordly schedule with his younger brother, stealing less-than-proper walks and conversations that were culminating now, in a barely hidden kiss between the sentinel trees of the godswoods, the danger of getting caught by anyone sending goosebumps down Catelyn’s spine.

She slid her hand into Ned’s trousers, and he nearly shoved her and jumped away.

“Cat, we shouldn't,” he said, panting, but his hands stayed where they were on her waist, their bodies flush to each other.

“Please, Ned. I need to feel you inside me,” she pleaded.

“We can't. This-- we shouldn't have acted on this.”

“Please, Ned. Give me children. I wish we were married so we wouldn't need to hide and I could always be full with your babes in me…” she moaned frantically, forcing her fingers into the lacing of his pants.

“Do not speak like that, woman,” he groaned, and under his trousers Cat felt his manhood spring up at the thought of her pregnant with his child.

“Like that, how, Ned? How I want your seed in me, filling me up and taking root, spilling over my cunt and dripping down my legs where no one can see but we’d know, we'd know. Should I not talk about how much I need your cock inside me, and how much I'd love for my children to be ours, born of our love and not my marriage?”

“They'd be bastards, then, and you'd be cast out in dishonor if they found out,” Ned reasoned.

“Only if they can prove it. And they shall never find out, Ned. They expect the children to look like Starks and Tullys, and they will look the part regardless. No one will know and no one will be able to prove it. It's perfect. Just make love to me, Ned. Please.”


	11. Ned, his bannermen Gen; betting pool

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt: https://valar-morekinks.livejournal.com/8859.html?thread=3608219#t3608219
> 
>  
> 
> summary: “Is that your final bet, Greatjon?”
> 
> “That is my final bet, Karstark!”

“Ned, that Ned, the stuck-up Quiet Wolf, had a bastard?” the Greatjon inquiries.

“Aye,” Rickard Karstark smirks, looking up at the dais where their new liege lord sits with his new wife, who is entirely too displeased with the ordeal. “Ten dragons the babe is not even his, but he did fuck the girl and feels guilty.”

The Greatjon laughs, and pats the other lord on the back forcefully, taking a swig of his personal tankard, which looked more like a barrel than a proper drinking cup.

“I’ll take you! Ten dragons say the boy is Ned’s, but I reserve my right to guess at the mother when the babe is older. Children do look so much like Old Nan’s knees when they’re swaddlings.”

“Would know much about the Old Nan’s knees, wouldn’t you, Jon,” Roose Bolton demurred from his cup, in an even voice.

“Oh sod off, you creeper. You have a bairn of your own, you know what I mean.”

“I would not know, I have not yet seen my son,” Roose nods amiably before continuing, “I do expect the Ryswell bow legs, though, my wife would not write to me so pleased if he had not been born with legs for horse riding.”

“I think the snowling is actually Brandon’s,” Torghen Flint says, scrunching up his face. “I remember these two from when they were kids, Little Ned couldn’t even hold that Karstark’s girl’s hand without blushing up a storm. Look at him. Can’t even stand being near his wife without being red in the face. No, that bastard is definitely Brandon’s, he’s claiming him as his own because the sons of the firstborn come first, baseborn or not.”

“Lord Eddard doesn’t have it in him to usurp his brother’s only child,” Lord Bolton points out, “he’s too honorable. If he’s doing so, he’s doing with his wife’s approval, and the woman looks about ready to strangle her lord husband to death. No, Lady Stark truly believes it is Lord Eddard’s bastard.”

“Then what is your bet, Roose?” a new voice piped in, as Lord Howland Reed sat by them.

“I’ll make no bet until I hear something from the man who was there,” he said, his pale blue eyes zoning into Lord Reed, who, to his credit, didn’t waver nor show any fear in his vivid green ones.

“I’m sworn into secrecy, and there is nothing the gods loathe more than an oathbreaker,” Lord Howland mused. “I guess there’s no harm in playing along, though. I can tell you that his mother wasn’t a peasant, that much is true.”

The Old Flint looked at Lord Reed with a considering look.

“I’ll bet you three mountain cows the mother is one of that Dornish lot.”

“Now that you say, Flint,” the Greatjon says, pensive, “I do remember our little liege lord getting all flustered near that dornish Lady, the Dayne one with the Princess Elia.”

“Is that your final bet, Greatjon? Lord Eddard had a tryst midwar with the Lady Dayne?” Rickard Karstark asked.

“That is my final bet, Karstark!”

“You are all wrong,” Roose Bolton said, over his drink. “Lord Eddard doesn’t have it in him to have a bastard with a perfectly good wife waiting at home. However, his sister did run away from a marriage with a Prince of the Blood.”

“We shouldn’t speak ill of the dead, Roose,” Lord Howland commented, mildly.

“Well, if I’m right, it’s not speaking ill if it’s true.”

“While you fellas betted aimlessly,” Lord Rodrick Ryswell said, sitting heavily beside his son-in-law, “I went to look at the babe in his wet nurse’s arms. Sturdy little fella, quiet too. You can almost miss the purple in the tyke’s eyes.”

The table went very quiet, as they looked at each other, while Lord Bolton looked all too pleased with himself.

“Who’s with me and who’s with Roose,” asked the Greatjon, surprisingly not booming and making a misunderstanding of the thing.

The table did divide itself in three factions afterwards, with Lord Reed abstaining from joining, and the Old Flint, the Greatjon and Lord Karstark betting that the babe was Ashara Dayne’s, and Lords Ryswell and Bolton betting that the boy was the Lady Lyanna’s.

(After Aemon, the first of his name was settled in King’s Landing with his wife, three dragons and a child on the way, Lord Ryswell dumped half his winnings on Lord Bolton’s grave in the ruined Dreadfort.)


	12. Robert Baratheon Gen; and they never wanted to leave

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt: https://valar-morekinks.livejournal.com/8190.html?thread=3343102#t3343102  
> I’m not gonna pretend my bilingual ass understood what the person wanted with this, but it did spark a little plotbunny in my head.
> 
>  
> 
> summary: robert's ghosts can't follow him north of the neck. or can they?

“Come on, Jon, play for us!” Ned’s youngest girl, a wispy, wild thing called Arya, pulled on her bastard brother’s arm with one hand, another hand on a bard’s pilfered lute.

“Arya, I don’t know, I don’t think that’s a good idea,” the boy countered, looking more than a little embarrassed.

“Come on, Jon, I know you can play and sing!”

“Yeah, Jon, play for us,” Ned’s oldest boy heckled his brother, a huge smile on his face. “Play Last of the Giants!”

“Play Jenny’s song!” The oldest girl yelled at him; clearly her dislike of her bastard brother didn’t extend to his musical abilities, or all that snubbing was just an act in front of her Lady Mother.

Robert decided to join into the heckling of Ned’s secondborn.

“Play The Bear and the Maiden Fair!” He boomed, and the hall echoed in laughter.

Jon sighed, as even Lady Catelyn shrunk in her seat bitterly. He couldn’t avoid it now that it was the King’s wishes.

“If it pleases Your Graces, I’ll follow the Lady Sansa’s request first,” the boy said, miffed, but clearly enounced as he took a comfortable seat with the musicians.

“Of course, lad,” he allowed, laughing.

The boy took his sweet time, clearing his throat and tuning the lute to his satisfaction.

_ “High in the halls of the kings who are gone, Jenny would dance with her ghosts…” _

Robert stood stock still.

He knew that voice. Or he knew something like it once.

_ “The ones she had lost and the ones she had found,” _ the boy continued, in that soft, deep, crystal clear pitch that threatened to throw him back to the worst days of his life.

He looked to his sides, to his wife and children and best friend’s family. Sansa and Myrcella looked pleased, his daughter even looking a bit smitten, while Tommen played with his food, probably miffed at not getting to listen to the song about the giants, and Joffrey looked like he was forced to swallow a lemon whole. Catelyn was torn between mild appreciation that at least the bastard wasn’t making a fool of himself, and irritated that he was under such spotlight. Ned’s face wanted to break out in fatherly pride, but he schooled it into a neutral face.

Cersei looked like she had seen a ghost too.

_ “And they spun her around on the damp old stones, spun away all her sorrow and pain…” _

Robert could still remember when a voice like that had stolen away his Lyanna. He looked, bleary eyed at the boy singing, trying to find something. Drink had addled his vision already, it seemed, and try as he might, he couldn’t focus on the boy’s features.

The dark hair was the only thing keeping Robert from grabbing his longsword and cleaving the boy in half. He was Ned’s boy. Ned was his friend, his loyal companion and soon to be Hand. Ned would have told him if he found any dragonspawn.

_ “And she never wanted to leave, never wanted to leave…” _

Cersei’s face was pale, pursed in hatred, but that was just her normal expression, as far as people who weren’t her and her children were concerned. But there was something there too, and Robert didn’t want to think it was longing, the boy was half her age for crying out loud.

The song ended, and people applauded, the boy bowed, and Robert was more than ready to question Ned about what the fuck was that, when Tommen stood up and loudly demanded to listen to the song about the giants.

“Sing us about giants!” he screamed from the top of his little lungs, eyes wide and eager.

The lad, dispelling any notions Robert was having, merely chuckled.

“Oh, fine. But after this one I’m playing the King’s request and letting the bards do their job, alright?” Ned’s wild daughter whooped with the men, and the lad stood up, a foot on the footrests of his stool, got comfortable and started the song.

_ “Oooooooooooooooh, I am the last of the giants, my people are gone from the earth…”  _ He sung, a somber yet cheerier tone to his voice, which was still eerily haunting, but any similarities with his blasted cousin went aground there and then.

Rhaegar never sung two songs, and never took requests from children, nor indulged them with silly folk songs. Especially royal children, whom he thought ought to be raised only in hymns and songs about the royal family.

This boy might have scraped some musical talent from somewhere in the Stark line, it had to be. They did descend from the wildling king Bael the Bard after all.

None of his ghosts could follow him north of the Neck.


	13. Aegon VI/Jon Snow; heartbreak

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt: https://valar-morekinks.livejournal.com/7512.html?thread=3269720#t3269720
> 
> summary: Aegon is hopelessly in love with his hopelessly oblivious younger brother.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me: i wanna write fluff  
> me, 1.4k words later: FUCK

When Aegon was five years old, his father brought another baby boy home. He said his name was Aemon, and he would be their little brother now. Rhaenys was interested for five whole minutes, before turning to her dolls. After all, Aemon was only three years old, and he could barely speak. Aegon, however, was excited at the idea of being an older brother.

“I can teach him all kinds of things, Rhae. Like you teached me.”

“Like I  _ taught _ you,” she corrected, annoyed.

“Do you think he’ll want to hug me?” he asked her, worried.

“He’s a baby, babies like hugs,” she responded, disinterested.

As always, Rhae was right. Their new baby brother did like hugs. Aegon grabbed him by the hand, and pulled him towards the corner where the knights and horses were, and they played for a while, until Aemon decided he wanted a toy that Aegon was playing with, and Aegon didn’t want to give it to him. His little brother started crying, and not even giving the toy to him made him stop, so he decided to hug his brother. Aemon immediately stopped crying.

“See? It’s okay, I’m not angry with you.”

“Play horsie?” Aemon asked, picking up the toy Aegon offered.

“I’ll play with you.”

 

That night, Aemon had a nightmare.

Or he thought it was a nightmare.

He approached his brother’s crib cautiously, as a nursemaid all but pulled on her own hair, not knowing what to do. He climbed in, too big for cradles now, and hugged Aemon, who quietly turned to sob into Aegon’s nightclothes.

“What’s wrong, Aems?”

“Want mama.”

He asked the nursemaid to get his own mother, but when Aegon’s mom got closer, Aemon got angry.

“Not mama! Aem want mama!” he screamed and sat huffily back onto the crib, while Aegon’s mom looked to him, sad.

“I don’t get it, if Aems is my brother and Rhae’s, why isn’t mom his mom too?” he asked, confused.

“You see, Egg, your dad did a wrong thing with a lady three years ago. That lady is Aems’ mom.”

“And why isn’t she here?”

Aegon’s mom’s face turned even sadder, and she turned to Aemon.

“Can I pick you up, sweetheart? I want to show you something.”

Aemon looked at her with his big, grey eyes, full of unshed tears, before he nodded, stretching his arms up. Aegon’s mom motioned to Egg to follow them, so he did. They sat by the window of his and Aems’ room, looking out into the night sky.

“Can you see the stars, sweetling?” Aemon nodded. “Remember, all those times the bad man came to see your uncle?” He nodded again. “Everytime, he hurt your mama. Your mama wasn’t as strong as your grandmama Rhaella. She loved you very much, did you know? That’s why, when she died, she became a star. She wanted to look after you from where the bad man couldn’t find her.”

“I want mama,” Aemon repeated, on the verge of tears.

“Your mama is right there in the sky, sweetie. But she sent me to hug you and give you kisses, and to love you like she did. I promise you, that if you ever need me, you can call me, just like Egg and Rhae do, alright?”

“Mama can’t come back?”

“She can’t.” Aegon’s mom shook her head.

“But how mama give Aem kiss? She there, Aem here.”

“Well, I think she left some with me,” Aegon’s mom said, before smiling and planting a big kiss on Aemon’s cheek.

“Did Aem’s mom leave some with me, too?” He asked, hopeful.

“I’m sure she did, Egg,” his mom smiled as he climbed on her lap with Aemon.

“Oh, then here’s a kiss for you, too, Aems!” he exclaimed,all childish enthusiasm, and kissed Aemon too.

“Wanna sleep with Egg,” Aemon yawned after a little while just sitting and looking at the stars.

“Will you be okay sharing your big boy bed with Aemon, Egg?”

“Yes!”

Aemon settled down there to sleep and didn’t leave.

 

\---------------

 

Aemon was four when he kissed Aegon.

“I saw mama and papa doing it. Was it fun?” he asked, expectantly. Aegon just nodded, still too surprised to answer.

A week later, dad caught them kissing like mom and dad did, and got mad at them.

 

\-----------

 

Aegon was twelve when his father started inviting the children of lords and ladies into the castle. Aegon was also twelve when he learned why he shouldn’t kiss his brother.

“My grandmama doesn’t care,” Loras tells him, “but I had to become very good with the sword to get the other boys to stop hitting me.”

“But why? Did you hurt Lucas?” Aegon asked, kicking a rock from under the bench at the gardens.

“No. People like us… the Faith doesn’t like us. Teaches everyone we’re wrong. They will say on and on about how the Gods made us perfect, then turn on people like us and say we were born wrong.”

He hugged Loras in a fashion he hoped looked manly enough.

He stopped kissing Aemon that year. He didn’t want people hurting his little brother because of him.

 

\---------------

 

The dreams came when he was 15.

He couldn’t look at Aemon without turning red. Rhaenys, now the future Lady of Highgarden, couldn’t stop laughing when he came to her with his problems.

“Oh, I always knew this day would come, brother dearest. I cannot help you in the least, but I do so love hearing you complain about dreaming of being able to marry Aems.”

Almost every night, he would dream of kissing Aemon, of being naked with him. He and Loras played at kisses and stolen touches at night a few times, but nothing compared to the dreams of doing the same thing to his baby brother, how right it would feel to hold him close, how he yearned to hear Aemon’s breathing getting labored as he touched his brother everywhere.

When he told Loras, the other boy made a weird face, and muttered ‘Targaryens’ under his breath, before taking a deep breath and steeling himself.

“Aemon  _ is _ pretty cute,” Loras admitted, in a tone of defeat.

Aegon also learned at 15 that not every noble family in westeros was as loose with how they viewed marriages and siblings as his own.

For the first time in his life, Aegon cursed that Aemon hadn’t been born Visenya.

 

\----------

 

Their father died when he was 17. His father’s pyre didn’t even cool down enough for his ashes to be collected, and they were rushing him to the tailors, his father’s Hand, Jon Connington, speaking animatedly about one or other detail of his coronation. They didn’t even get to mourn the man properly; the realm needed a king, and being the Prince of Dragonstone meant that mantle fell on him.

The timing of it all meant, he couldn’t dissolve his betrothal to Lady Rhaena Velaryon, either.

He chose to have his coronation at the same time as his wedding, hoping to push it back a little, to have time to mourn his father properly. But the terms of their betrothal said that they would marry when the Lady Rhaena had her first moonblood.

There certainly were gods in the world, and they loathed anyone bearing the blood of the dragon.

As they carried him for the bedding, stripping him down, he saw his brother joing the men stripping down the bride and sighed. He just hoped he wouldn’t say his brother’s name during the bedding, which meant that, by divine grace, he ended up doing it.

Thankfully, Rhaena Velaryon was a forgiving woman. Mostly.

“I didn’t marry a simpering buffoon, last I checked. I am not so easily discouraged, Your Grace. I knew fully that our marriage was not borne of any fondness you might harbor for me, for all that you graced me with none of your time in all the years I fostered in King’s Landing. If you do your duty I shall do mine, and all I expect in return of ignoring that you call for Prince Aemon in bed is that you treat me with respect,” she huffed, red in the face, pulling the sheets around her to cover her breasts, for all that Aegon has already seen them and chosen to ignore them.

 

\-------------

 

Aemon asked him for his blessing to marry Princess Daenerys at 16.

He did not know if his heart sung or broke at the brilliant smile Aemon beamed at him when he said it would be done.


	14. Aegon VI/Jon Snow; father's wishes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt: https://valar-morekinks.livejournal.com/8190.html?thread=3294206#t3294206
> 
> summary: rhaegar finds more about his sons than he intended to.

Rhaegar was exhasperated.

Mind you, his son by Lyanna, as wild as he could be, accepted his betrothal to Lady Alyssa Velaryon quite easily. Aemon was a good child when he chose to be. His firstborn son, however, was a whole ‘nother story.

“I will not marry Lady Margaery. I will marry no lady, and I will join the Kingsguard or run to Castle Black if you push the matter, Father,” Aegon said, steel in his looks and fire in his words. It made him think of his mother when he didn’t consider her in the matters of marrying Lyanna.  _ Unbowed, Unbent, Unbroken. _ All dornishmen and women he met were stubborn like that, it was little wonder the kingdom only submitted to the dragons truly through marriage. And he could see that for his little dornish prince, he would use any subterfuges to run away from one.

“Rhae is already married to the heir to Highgarden. Isn’t that enough?” Aemon pointed out, and Rhaegar sighed.

“If I leave any of you without a betrothed, Tywin will force one to either of his grandchildren. As beautiful and kind I hear Lady Myrcella is, do not forget that she will be but a mouthpiece and a pawn in her grandfather’s game.”

Aemon did his best not to roll his eyes, but Aegon made no such efforts.

“Lord Tywin can force a marriage all he wants, it’s an open secret he had his goons sneak into the Keep to kill Mother,” Aegon spat out. “He should know the crown will never reward him for his treachery.”

“Would you at least consider, or pretend to spend time with Lady Margaery, my son?” he pleaded.

“No. I’d rather spend time with my future Hand than listen to whatever fashions are rising in Essos. It does seem that whenever I approach the Lady to spend any time with, that is all she wants to talk about,” Aegon grumbled.

“That’s not fair to Lady Margaery, Egg,” Aemon said, mildly. “All she does is ask about your opinion on her dress, and then you clam up and leave. It makes her quite sad, that you don’t think she’s pretty.” Aemon had a big goofy grin on his face when he finished speaking. Rhaegar didn’t know if he was content that at least his time in captivity north of the wall had loosened up his youngest a little, or horrified that he thought so.

_ “I wasn’t kidnapped, I was stolen, Father, those are completely different things for the Free Folk,” Aemon said. “Ygritte and I were married for a time, until we weren’t,” he said, in a grossly understated way; the girl who the Free Folk called Wolf Princess now had all but attempted murder when Aemon expressed his wishes to go with the Watch’s Rangers back home. All that stopped her hand was his promise to talk with the ‘King of Kneelers’ about allowing them passage through the Wall. _

“Then why doesn’t she just asks me that out loud? It’s so stupid, talking about fabric quality.” Aegon huffed, pouting in his brother’s direction in a fashion Rhaegar often saw in Cersei Lannister whenever she looked at him. And wasn’t that a dreadful thought.

“I’ll convey to Lady Margaery your wishes for her to be more direct, Egg, I’m sure she’ll appreciate being told by her future goodbrother how to deal with her own husband,” Aemon drawled, and made to get up.

Aegon sighed, and begged Rhaegar to excuse him as well, as he had matters to attend to in the stables, probably meaning he was going to take a ride to forget everything about his betrothal, which he seemed to think was dreadful, and probably the second coming of the Long Night.

He thought nothing of it, even thought it was a good idea to just go riding for a bit to clear his ideas himself, until he reached the stables and saw his sons wrestling-- no. They were not wrestling, because you didn’t wrestle with your pants down.

He left the stables soon after, and roped Arthur into joining him for a Flea Bottom night of drinking and playing bard. He could not deal with that sober, and refused to try.


	15. Ned/Catelyn/Ashara; three's a headache

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt: https://valar-morekinks.livejournal.com/7512.html?thread=3197016#t3197016
> 
> summary: brandon's little siblings' love lives are much more amusing than his own, if he was being honest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> say hello to this 5.5k behemoth of a fic. don't look at the plot too closely i know there's holes but they're there for ~comedic effect~, i tell myself before relinquising my soul to the reaper.

Brandon, the asshole, would not stop laughing.

“I don’t know why I tell you these things, if you’re just going to stand there and act like this is a good thing,” Ned groused.

Ned, you see, had two problems in his life, and both of them had a name and a surname, and both of them were hellbent on driving him to an early grave. One of his problems was named Ashara Dayne, and the other Catelyn Tully. Brandon had been summarily dumped by both of them a scant mere year ago, and when it started, he told Ned he thought they were trying to make him jealous by hitting on his younger brother. Almost an entire fifty-two weeks later, Ned could safely say that, were that still the case, they were both very determined and hard-headed.

As it was, the latest complaint he had was that both of them had sat Ned down mid-campus, and, in front of an increasing crowd, told him they were going to kiss him and he was going to choose whomever kissed better as a girlfriend.

“And did you?” Brandon asked, legit tears in his eyes, sitting backwards on Ned’s desk chair.

“I thought I was going to die, because they didn’t give me much option!” He hid his burning face in his hands. “I told them I cannot possibly choose between them, hoping they’d leave me alone, but Cat was looking like she was about to give in to Ash’s suggestion of a blowjob competition!”

Brandon looked at his brother like he grew a second, third and fourth heads.

“Ned, I can’t believe I’m going to have to spell it to you, but you gotta make a decision between them, because that’s leading them on.”

Now it was Ned’s turn to face his brother like the world was ending. Bran was being  _ considerate _ and  _ thoughtful _ , and actually  _ giving good advice _ , which was precisely the solid proof Eddard needed to be sure that the Others were really coming in with the winter.

“I know! But no matter what I do, I can’t! How do you decide between two different but equally wonderful women without making the other miserable? I know you either don’t have this problem or just don’t care, Bran, but I care and everytime I see them plotting I start panicking! This can’t end on a blowjob competition, I’ll die!”

“Wait, it just sank in, Ashara suggested a blowjob competition?”

Because of course that’s what Brandon took away from all that.

“That’s not the point, Bran! It’s killing me! They’re gonna make my entire blood clot in places that aren’t my brain and then I’ll die from hypoxia, and that’s not the way I want to go!”

“Ned, you’re the only man I know that would make a big deal out of this,” Brandon said, rolling his eyes. “Just date them both at the same time, it won’t even be like you’re two-timing them, since they’re hellbent on competing with each other.”

Ned looked at him like he’s seen the gods in front of him, or like Brandon finally said something smart (to which he took offense; he always had something smart to say).

“I can’t believe I’m saying this, but you’re right.”

 

Two weeks of looking like he was in dude heaven, Ned was back in Brandon’s room, looking dour and surly and completely unhappy.

“What happened now?” he asked, pulling up a beer from the minifridge. He had a feeling he was going to need it.

“Your ex, Barbrey.”

“Don’t tell me she wanted in on your little harem?” Brandon asked, blunt and pointedly, and Ned winced at the nickname.

“No, uh. She spread a rumor she slept with me to get back at you, and now Cat and Ash are mad at me, won’t return my calls and don’t answer my texts. I told Barb to let me out of her little feud with you, and she said that I’m already two-timing Cat and Ash, what’s another one in the mix.”

Brandon was halfway typing out Barbrey’s number on the landline before Ned finished his sad, depressing story.

_ “Well, if that isn’t the slut himself _ ,” Barbrey said, all venom.

“You tell Ashara and Catelyn you did not fuck my brother right now, Barbrey, or I swear to the gods old and new I’ll tell everyone the real reason we broke up,” he growled, angry.

_ “Why do you care, even, he deserves it, cheating on one with the other.” _

“See, that’s why we never would work, Barb, you just don’t respect what you don’t understand,” Brandon practically spat out.

“Bran, you don’t need to-” Ned started, looking upset.

“No, I absolutely need to, Ned, she needs to understand her problem is with me and me alone.”

_ “Oh, so younger slut is just hanging out with the original Stark Slut, complaining that mean old Barbrey ratted him out to the girls he was cheating on?” _ She taunted, with enough poison to kill a houseful of Freys.

“Can’t cheat if they know about each other, Barb. They’re on a mutually-beneficial arrangement to compete over Ned, and you, you hag, made my brother miserable for no reason other than you couldn’t just own you’re bad at philosophy!”

Ned’s sadness mixed with confusion, and Bran made a “later” sign at him.

_ “Oh boo-hoo, so they know about each other and he’s just coasting by, taking advantage. Color me unsurprised, Stark.” _

“This is Ned you’re talking about, Barbrey, he probably has a little journal relating-- yup, there it is, one for each and color-coded divisors, he’s fucking micro-managing the shit out of this,” Brandon said, as Ned pulled up two black notebooks neatly engraved with metallic letters in the colors of Dayne and Tully houses, with several little post-it page markers sticking out.

_ “Ugh. If this wasn’t Ned we’re talking about, I’d say you’re absolutely bullshitting me, but he did hand me a little chart at age 7 with the pros and cons of the colt my father offered his for Ned’s birthday.” _ Barbrey sighed, and then groaned louder.  _ “Fine, I’ll try to talk to them. And I’ll attempt to keep your siblings out of our fighting.” _

“Thank you.”

_ “I’ll call around dinnertime for updates. Do tell me their out-of-ten scores, and the highlights of Ned’s charting of their competition.” _

“No promises,” he said, and hung up. “She’s gonna talk to them, apologize and shit. Probably, if you’re lucky, she’ll explain her feud with me in her own words. Prepare to like, jot this down or whatever.”

“It’s not like that,” Ned sighed. “They insisted I take like. Notes, and grade them or whatever, so they can compare?” He sighed, and flopped back on Brandon’s bed. “I have to math it out precisely every two days so it evens out because this is only making me more confused and if you thought I couldn’t choose  _ before _ , it’s  _ worse _ now.”

Brandon snorted his beer, foam coming out of his nose, and choke-laughing it out while Ned panicked.

“I cannot believe we’ve come up with the perfect solution and you’re back to square one!”

“It’s just. They’re like.” Ned tried to put his feelings into words, fidgeting with the notebooks. “They’re equally perfect on different levels, and I’m just… I’m even more in love with them now than I was, and I don’t know how to tell them that. I think I’m going to break up with them and join the Night’s Watch. Take no wife, father no children, all that jazz, so I don’t have to choose.”

Brandon put both arms on Ned’s shoulders, opened his mouth, ready to talk about how those were drastic measures and how Brandon was wholly inadequate to be Lord Paramount, but decided against it, going to his fridge and pulling a beer up for Ned.

“I’ll tell you what, Ned. You drink that, I’ll go over your notes, and we’ll come up with something. Just… Relax, and trust your big bro.”

“That’s a tall order, Brandon.”

“C’mon, Neddy, when did I lead you wrong?”

Ned pulled up his cellphone, fiddled with it a bit, and three seconds later Brandon received a notification from his email, showing him Ned sent him lists of that, in chronological and alphabetical order.

(Later he’d find out the only thing both contained was “gotcha”, because Word doesn’t save blank documents, but he was properly impressed nonetheless by Ned’s commitment to be ready for everything, including jokes.)

 

By nine o’clock, Barbrey called him back.

_ “So, spill the deets, Branny boy, I don’t got all night.” _

“Ned didn’t let me near the notebooks,” he started.

_ “Boo hoo, like I believe you let your brother get away with the juiciest of gossips in his bag back to his room.” _

“You know me too well, Barbs. I got him to drink a lot of beer, and stole the notebooks when he went to the bathroom. I’m reading them now.”

_ “And? Tell this faster, Brandon, I’m going to be old and grey at this rate.” _

“So I’m only as far as halfway through the one labeled Ash Dayne in obnoxious white and purple metallic letters embossed with falling stars and almost there with the one named Cat Tully in holographic chromatic red and blue letters embossed with fish scales, because Ned is nothing if not organized and proper, he had custom made leather bound notebooks for this.”

_ “If you have to do whatever it is that he’s doing, I guess one should do it in style at least.” _

“He was halfway to drunk when he left, I think he mentioned something about capturing an infinitesimal part of the two’s beauty in one of the hardest things he was ever asked to do in his life.”

_ “Well, if you gotta deal with what you’ve done for the rest of your life, you might as well have it look stunning.” _

“One of the best sentences I’ve read so far was actually written on both notebooks, at the covers, like a reminder, and it goes ‘comparing the beauty and valour of the sun and the moon is useless for they will not love you the same way, and one does not worship them alike’, which is cheesy as  _ fuck _ , and-- Barbrey, are you cooing?”

_ “How are they so lucky, holy shit, Ned got all the suave in the family, you’re just the pretty face.” _

“Can’t argue with that. Also, apparently Ashara is the moon and Catelyn is the sun in the comparison.”

_ “Oh my gods, how does that happen, isn’t Catelyn the Riverlands’ Lord’s daughter, and Ash the dornish one?” _

“I resorted to reading them in tandem, and by the  _ gods _ , Barb, I don’t think Ned meant for  _ anyone else _ to read these journals, though. Apparently Cat is more… loose than we thought, when properly handled.”

_ “You are  _ not _ telling me Ned slept with Catelyn Tully, the woman is probably as frigid as the trout in her family’s banner!” _

“Look, I’m not saying he hasn’t bedded them both, but apparently Ashara’s entire… Dornishness doesn’t translate to being very feisty in bed. Ned does wax a ton of poetics at those entries. How ‘the music of their love fills the room everytime and leaves him breathless at just how much a man can love a woman’.”

_ “So, what does a woman need to do to get in on this, because Ned? Little Ned wrote this? Eddard Stark, who couldn’t even look at Margaret Karstark without blushing and making an excuse to hide his boner?” _ Barbrey huffed.  _ “It definitely feels like I drew the short straw when hooking up with Starks.” _

“Well, to this day, on what’s left of my honor and on all of that Ned has, I have no idea what he even  _ did _ , he just came to me one day and said they were ready to throw hands, and that they were threatening to have him choose one of them via a blowjob competition. I mean, I knew he liked them beforehand, but between ‘Brandon, I like two girls, send help’ at three AM and ‘Brandon, I don’t want them sucking me off at the same time, what do I do’ is a tad too big of a jump.”

_ “Maybe ask, Stark, I can’t go to my gossip circle with incomplete juice.” _

“So selfless,” he grumbled. “Apparently, the first time Cat and Ned did the diddly darned, as he used to say, Cat was ready to go against a wall three doors away from where her father was still awake, unaware that Ned was there but aware that she was home, twenty minutes before dinner.”

_ “What-- I did not expect this from that floppy fish of a woman, I mean, look at her sister and brother! Where did that come from! It’s not from the Tully blood, because you spend a smidge of time with Lady Olenna and you know everything about old people.” _

“Her mother was a Whent, maybe from there? My sister, who’s chummy with Ashara’s monk of a brother, says Oz is… something else, and I’m choosing to ignore the tone she said it.”

_ “Tad hypocritical of you, seeing as you’re hellbent on harping on Ned about this.” _

“It’s more of a projection thing. I’ll be the first disgusting man to admit that when we ask out straight mates to inform us of their comings and bangings, we totally think of us banging those girls. It’s why Ned blushes so much if you say something about people you’ve fucked, he doesn’t want to imagine himself fucking someone he’s not in a loving relationship with.”

_ “Disgusting, but somewhat noble of you to not want to imagine yourself fucking your own sister.” _

“Or getting slapped about by Oswell Whent, yes.”

_ “Like I said, disgusting.” _

“Continuing, one might think, just from observing these notes, that Ned waxes  _ so much poetics _ about Ashara’s… everything, and talks more to the point about Catelyn, and one might come to the conclusion that Ned loves Ashara best. One would be wrong, as you get closer to more recent entries, as they read each other’s notes from Ned, and are apparently taking damn notes too, because apparently just last week I almost walked straight into my brother balls deep into Ashara in the fucking corridor our bedrooms are. In those words.”

_ “Holy shit, Brandon, what the hell, are you fucking serious?” _

“Look, don’t repeat word by word these things, I’m telling you because I’m not about to tell my guy mates, I’m  _ trusting you _ , Barb, to not babble on the details of their lives,” Brandon warned. “You’re my evil ex, and your beef is with me, and I somehow still trust you with my brother’s life here.”

_ “I’m honored. I swear I won’t babble on Little Ned’s apparently wild sex life to anyone as long as you keep me posted.” _

“It’s a deal, Ryswell.”

_ “Now, continue on, Stark, I’m ever so entertained by your brother apparently being so much better a lover than you, he bagged two of the most beautiful noblewomen on this bitch of a country.” _

“First and second place, actually, according to a gossip rag.” Brandon flipped a page and nearly choked.

_ “What? Don’t leave me hanging, Stark, you did this enough when we fucked.” _

“I can’t even muster up annoyance, right now, I’m too busy not dying,” he coughed, beating on his chest as if he were having a heart attack. “They did, in the end, have their three-way competition thing.”

_ “I’ll confess, for all that I thought Cat was a limp fish and Ashara was all talk, and Ned was a bloody black brother waiting to happen, those books are turning out spicy like Myrish food.” _

“Maybe so, but I don’t get it. They told Ned they could barely stand each other more than once, and here they are, not even to the present, tag-teaming Ned. Shouldn’t this be the point where they force Ned’s hand into choosing?”

_ “Maybe they think that he’ll choose whomever didn’t make him choose, therefore keeping quiet to avoid being known as ‘that girl’?” _

“Maybe so.”

 

On the day of Ned’s birthday, Brandon was ambushed. It was a good ambush, nice, even, or would be if he wasn’t being ambushed by his middle brother’s girlfriends.

“Ladies,” he said, tipping the edge of his sports cap, “to what do I owe the pleasure of your company?”

“We can’t agree on a gift for Ned,” Ashara says, frowning at Catelyn. “Cat says Ned will like a tablet rubber cover, in case one of your family’s direwolves knocks it over, and I say he’d like better one of those business tablet attachments with card holders, tablet pen latch, the whole shebang.”

“One of those is too expensive for the occasion, given that we've only been together with him for three months!” Cat explains, blushing. “You don’t give out jewelry, which is expensive and a lifelong thing, to someone you’ve been together for less than a year, it sends the wrong, desperate message!”

“Cat, please, this is Ned we’re talking about. He doesn’t have the same compunctures; remember the birthday gifts he gave  _ us _ and we weren’t even together yet?”

“That’s different, Ash! Ned’s just that kind of person naturally, and we’re literally competing for his sole, undivided attention!”

“Well, if I may,” Brandon interjected, “I heard him complaining about how the wolves ate his pine nuts stash. The wolves didn’t, I did, and I have a new stash ready to gift him back. For the cheap price of not telling him it was me, I can give the box to you two. I can get another gift for him.”

The two looked at Brandon for the first and last time like he was their sole source of happiness, and greedily accepted.

Three hours later, he gets a confused text from Ned. It was a bunch of question marks, and the image attached was of a crate of pine nuts with the remnants of a gift paper with small colorful wolves across a holographic expanse, and on top were a brand new silicone tablet cover with a practical screen cover, patterned with wolf paws, and a beautiful leather desktop tablet attachment, with a stylus and pen holders, card slots, a notepad, a magnetized container for paperclips and USB charger, keyboard and even a foldable lamp, that was fully portable.

Soon enough, because Brandon had been remiss in his brother-helping, he received a call from Ned.

_ “Why did I get your birthday present, a fall proof tablet cover to work at the kennels and a portable office today?” _ Ned asked, confusion seeping through his voice and bleeding into the tinny reproduction of the phone.

“Shouldn’t you be spending time with your girls, Ned?”

_ “They left, they said that while they can tolerate each other now, they can’t stand each other around me like this too long. They didn’t wanna leave me hanging so they’re drawing sticks over who gets to come over later for ‘adult entertainment’, their words, not mine.” _ Ned sounded flustered.

“Way to go, buddy. Why the call, then?”

_ “I don’t understand the theme of these gifts, is all. Catelyn wasn’t here when Breezer nearly destroyed my tablet the other day, and Ashara wasn’t here when I complained about needing to carry an office with me more efficiently, and they definitely weren’t here when you blamed the dogs for your own atrocious eating habits.” _

“Ah, well, Neddy. Maybe they’re talking to each other, coordinating how best to attack you so they give their all and you make a fair decision?” he teased.

_ “... look, you might be right. Still, it’s just… I swore to myself that I would just tell them today, because it’s not fair, to me or Cat and Ash, to keep this up.” _

“More power to you, Ned. You’ve always been the more responsible one of us. But tell them what, exactly?”

_ “I can’t do this anymore, I can’t choose between them, so clearly I don’t deserve either of them.” _

Brandon spat out his drink, earning himself a few looks from the people at the café he shacked up at.

“The fuck you on about, Ned?”

_ “You heard me.” _

“Are you sure, little bro?”

A pause, and Brandon could hear Ned’s breathing over the line.

_ “No, but I have to.” _

Brandon sighed, shaking his head.

“Well, you know my stance on things like this, and I wish your luck was mine, but alas, it’s not to be. Godspeed, brother.”

_ “Thank you, Brandon.” _

As soon as the line went dead, he called Barbrey.

_ “What?” _

“Ned is going to break up with  _ both _ his girlfriends.” Barbrey let out a  _ “what” _ so shrill Brandon had to put his phone against his body to muffle it. “Don’t fucking yell, woman, remember, discretion.”

_ “Bets are off, Stark, tell me everything.” _

“Barbs.”

_ “I hate you. Okay, personal details will be omitted.” _

“He called me practically crying, because they gave him thoughtful gifts that referred to occasions the gifter hadn’t been privy to, and had an identity crisis, I think? He threatened to join the Night’s Watch last time, at any rate.”

_ “So, typical Stark friday night.” _

“Basically, except last time this came around, he wasn’t dating Ashara Dayne and Catelyn Tully.”

_ “As if that matters. I think. Is there more to it?” _

“Just earlier today, they ambushed me asking what a good gift for Ned would be. And that was it, I don’t think anything would’ve happened, I have no idea what brought Ned’s crisis on. He was happy last I checked his notebooks.”

_ “Hm. Maybe he’s into someone else? Preferably me?” _

“Dream on, Ryswell. If I had to guess, I’d say he’s being his shitty noble self, sacrificing his happiness for the sake of the ones he loves, again.”

_ “Ugh, I hate when he does that, you moped for three weeks last time.” _

“The self-sacrificing asshole is going to blow his shot at happiness, isn’t he. Like, permanently this time.”

_ “It’s a possibility.” _

“Well, fuck. I can’t very well go save his ass, I got class.”

_ “Impossible. You’re as classless as they come.” _

“No, I mean, academically, I have to run to class, it’s been real, Barbs, but Professor Dustin waits for no man, me least of them all.”

 

He came home that night to find out his siblings minus Ned in the reading room, Benjen looking surly and Lyanna in the midst of a laughing fit.

“Uh, what happened?” He asked, and Ben’s face went sourer.

Lyanna had to find the breath.

“We come home from school, right?” she tries, coughing. “We’re tired, all we want to do is get into our beds and die.”

“I’m still feeling like death, but I may settle for Ned’s,” Ben grouses.

“ _ Anywho _ , we go to our floor on the tower, fully intending to get some much needed Z’s before bed, and find that not only are theret loudass moaning coming from the door to our corridor, said door is locked and has a hotel DND thing on the handle, with a really badly drawn sock on it.”

Brandon takes a deep breath, trying to not laugh, trying to be the supportive big brother the way Ned was, and Gods damn it, how did Ned do it, he was floundering here.

“I looked up what a sock on a door handle means, and I’m disgusted. People are nasty. I thought Ned had my back, but…”

“C’mon, Ben, you know he does, just like we do. It’s Ned’s birthday, and you know how he is normally. Let him have some disgusting fun with people he can actually stand doing the do with,” Bran said, patting Ben’s back.

“I just don't get it, he said he wasn't going to do anything like that for his birthday. I was expecting to go riding with him, Breezer and Raven this evening, too.” Benjen looked devastated.

“I’ll tell you what, Ben, we’ll go riding right now, and Lya, you come too. I don’t want to know what’s going on upstairs, and if  _ I _ don’t want to, I bet neither of you want to.”

 

He called Barbrey that night.

“He didn’t have the balls to break up with them tonight. I’ll keep you posted if he does.”

_ “I’m so disappointed. I thought he had more moral fiber than that.” _

“It’s not really a moral fiber thing when--” he pauses, listening as he seethed. “Oh, by every weirwood tree I’ve ever seen, they’re at it again.  _ The three of them _ ,” he pointed out.

_ “Again? Neddy has some stamina on him, or built up some to keep up.” _ The amusement on Barb’s voice was palpable.

“Yeah, very impressive. I get the feeling those two are doing more than just tolerating each other for Ned’s sake, now, though.” Brandon resisted the urge to slam his head on the limestone walls that separated his room from Ned’s as a very loud moan passed through. His only comfort was that Lya was probably having an equally shitty night; her bed was on the same wall as Ned’s. “I mean, you don’t have what I’m assuming are now routine three-ways without at least liking the third person a little.”

_ “Well, at least one shouldn’t. The gods know this is how most adventurous relationships end.” _

“They finally stopped, I think, I’ll try to go to sleep-- FOR GODS’ SAKE GO TO SLEEP!” He covered his phone’s mic while he banged on the wall, hoping this utter torment would stop.

 

Brandon woke up the next morning looking like a murder maniac.

“Ned’s already gone to feed the wolves,” Lya greeted him, looking like she might’ve wanted to feed  _ Ned _ to the wolves.

“I’d settle for yelling at Ash and Cat; where are they,” he replied, grabbing a toaster strudel from the cabinet with bleary eyes.

“Gone as well, they had morning classes apparently. Caught them sneaking out.”

“Wow, you two look positively dreadful,” they heard Ben’s voice from the kitchen’s door.

“Next time Ned has anyone over, we’re sleeping in your bedroom,” Lya announced, deadly serious. “You’re so damn lucky to live across the corridor.”

“No, I’m not,” Ben said, ominously. “I told you to invest in a good ambient music player.”

“Ned’s bed is on the inner wall, the same one my bed is on,” Lya said, mourningly.

Benjen’s face went into a cringe.

“Yeah, that’s… there’s no cure for that, unless we move Ned’s bed.”

Lya’s face lit up, as much as someone who had very little sleep could brighten up at stupid-o’clock in the morning.

“You’re a damn genius, Ben!”

 

Coming back home from a whole day tending to the farm’s problems and running to and from college in less than two hours of sleep left Brandon in no state to deal with nonsense, and yet, nonsense is what was awaiting him as he opened the doors to the manse.

“... absolutely should’ve asked me before meddling in my things…!!”

“Ned, you’re being a grade A asshole; tell him, Ben”

Benjen must’ve answered something, because there was a lull in the yelling as he approached the family room they all liked to hang out.

“The unfair ones here are you two, I don’t even know what I did! And Lya was moving my things around! In my room! Without asking!”

“Well, Ned, should’ve thought these things through before getting up to loudass threesomes with two screamers at fucking three in the morning of a weekday,” Bran groused from the door, highly unamused.

Ned turned as red as the glass gardens’ tomatoes.

“Also, your bed was banging on the wall.  _ My _ bed wall. If you’re gonna keep bringing them around for marathon sex, you should at least have the decency to accept us meddling in your bedroom,” Lya said, frowning.

“They didn’t sleep well last night, and I could hear you three across the hall,” Ben supplied, helpfully.

Ned was very embarrassed; Brandon could feel the heat from his face from where he was, or so he told himself to amuse himself. He wasn’t about to admit it was just the fireplace. He was absolutely feeling avenged when Ned dragged him out of the living room, clearly wanting to have a chat but not having the dignity left to ask for it.

“What is it, Ned, I’m not feeling very charitable right now,” he grumbled.

“I tried telling them yesterday, but they said they had something to say first, and I let them, and they said they loved me, and that we should call the bet off, and they didn’t mind me going out with someone else if that one was one of them.” He sighed, then seemed to steel himself up to ask what he wanted to. “You’ve two-timed before, how do you even date two people at the same time?”

Brandon couldn’t help it, he laughed. He laughed so much, he couldn’t catch his breath, and was soon in tears and dizzy from the lack of oxygen.

He laughed so much and so loud, that Ben and Lya came to see if he was dying, and when asked what happened, he couldn’t even repeat it. So they forced it out of Ned, and now Ned was sitting on a couch, looking embarrassed and annoyed, while his three siblings were holding onto each other for dear life, cry-laughing.

Lya was the first to manage her wits back.

“Ned, what makes you think you’re not already a master at dating two people?”

He had the gall,  _ the nerve _ , of looking confused.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean,” she said, taking a deep breath first and looking like she was thinking angry thoughts to not fall back into laughing until she passed out like Benjen, “aren’t you already dating them both?”

Ned’s entire demeanor changed so fast it was like someone had flicked a switch to a lightbulb in his head.

“I… I did, didn’t I?”

“And what exactly did you think you were doing this entire time, Neddy?” Brandon asked, amused to seven hells.

“I’m not entirely sure,” he answered, so sheepish one of the wolves might have mistaken him for one of the sheep they feed them. “Before yesterday, I didn't even know that dating two people at the same time and it not being a bad thing was possible, so you’ll excuse me if I’m not confident on what I was doing.”

“I mean, Ned, it’s not like they want to date each other too, which in my opinion would make things way easier, but they did inform you that the current arrangement makes them happy, didn’t they?” Lya asked, and Brandon did his best to not ask where in the ever loving fuck did Lya learn that one thing, filing it away for a later date.

“Um. Yeah.” Ned shuffled his hands on his lap, in a show of discomfort. “This is weird.”

“Yeah, I’m peacing out.” Benjen had finally gotten some control of himself, and got up, patting his pants down. “When you three are done being absolutely disgusting, I’ll be in the stables.”

“I’m sorry about yesterday, Ben,” Ned said, weakly.

“It’s good, bro, don’t worry,” Ben said, waving from the door. “Deuces, you three, anyone wants me to saddle their horses too?”

“Please,” Lya asked before turning to Ned again. “Sooo, Cat and Ash, Ned? Who’d’ve thought you had it in you, bro.”

Ned groaned, propping his head on his hands on his lap.

 

A week later, Brandon was having to fend off tilde-untilde, ~questions~. Mainly from one Robert Baratheon, who was his brother’s self-styled best friend, from that one time in freshman year they were forced to be roommates.

“So, what did Ned even tell them to make them okay with that? I could use me some of that mojo,” Robert said, and Brandon had to summon every last shred of self control not to punch the man. So  _ that’s _ how he sounded to girls? No small wonder Ned is the one getting all the luck, if he came off that oafish.

“The truth, I guess. It helps when they both like you,” he answered through his teeth.

“Ned told me  _ that _ already, and it never pays off.” Robert laughed it off, sounding amused. “I mean, is there something in Ned? There must be.”

_ Yeah, _ Brandon thought, annoyed,  _ Ned’s not an annoying, lying whoremongering serial cheater, for one. _ It was almost good that he managed to feel only the slightest shred of self-hatred at that.

“Well, if anyone deserves that kind of luck, it’s Ned,” Brandon said instead.

“Wished only a bit of that had rubbed off on me, could’ve used some of that before Lya met my cousin,” Robert groused, and Brandon decided to ignore that a man like Whoring Bob was talking about  _ his sister _ like that, and focusing on the more pressing matters with some dread.

“Which cousin?”

Robert’s expression soured.

“The only cousin of note I have, really.”

Brandon was about to answer something,  _ anything _ , when his phone rang. Barbrey was calling him.

“Hey, a minute, I need to take this one,” he apologized, glad for the excuse, and hit answer before jogging a little distance away. “Hey Barbs, what’s up.”

_ “Did you know your sister is in a tabloid, having a grand ol’ time with the King and his wife?” _ She straight up lead with, and Brandon could cry.


	16. Dany/Jon Snow, Jon Snow/Aegon VI; mistakes were made

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt: https://valar-morekinks.livejournal.com/6487.html?thread=2647383#t2647383
> 
> summary: Dany and Aegon really should've asked Jon his opinion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is an 8k monstrosity to make up for the fact i haven't posted in a while pls enjoy <3

****

When Jon woke up that morning, the last thing he expected was to fall on his face because his entire balance was off. He also didn’t expect to yell so shrilly when he pushed his hand in his undergarments to scratch an itch and found none of his usual… appendages there.

Really, one would think that growing sizeable breasts overnight would be more noticeable than losing one’s cock, at first glance, but a sleepy person notices nothing they cannot reach for only.

He felt himself up, face contorted in displeasure. In addition to having misplaced his cock overnight, and grown breasts at least the same size as Sansa’s (not that he had felt up his cousin to measure), it seemed like he was still more or less the same height, with more or less the same length hair, only a bit fuller and wilder for it, and it would appear he had the same shape of body as Val (he had felt her up enough to know).

Jon pulled up his pants, trying to forget how it felt like with the different proportions. He probably looked like Arya, now, if Starks could look like Targaryens. He found out he was now just a tad shorter, and his feet were uncomfortably smaller too.  _ So I’ll have to sneak into Arya’s room to grab boots now… Great _ . He felt even more uncomfortable noticing how alright the fit of his clothes were already. He had always known that he would never grow as burly as other northmen, but he hoped he wasn’t as  _ dainty _ as Aegon was. Here were his hopes dashed, he had a female body and his own clothing still had a comfortable fit.

He tried consoling himself thinking of Arya telling him that male clothing was always more comfortable than female ones.

Someone knocked on his door, and he prayed to all gods that would listen that it were the ones responsible for this mess.

Daenerys and Aegon were both outside, both sporting very different looks on their faces. While Dany had an almost sheepish expression, Aegon’s face held his surprise and barely disguised lust. Jon felt a shiver down his spine, and a strange yet familiar warmth pooling between his legs. He resisted the urge to look down and check for a boner; girls thankfully didn't have traitorous dicks to inform the world just how attractive they found someone to be.

“It worked,” Dany said, with some wonder and a lot of surprise showing. 

“Oh, so there are gods still on this earth,” he deadpanned, in a voice that was familiar yet so terribly foreign he almost scared himself. He still sounded like  _ himself _ , quintessentially like  _ Jon Snow _ , but it was softer, and higher in pitch. It was a small mercy that it still held that innate gruff quality of someone who barely used their voice; he wouldn’t know what to do if he sounded entirely like a stranger. “I prayed they brought me the culprits, and lo and behold, they did,” he explained to their confused faces.

“So uh… You know why we did it, right?” Dany said, with a smile so fake it betrayed her slight fear and confusion at seeing him so angry.

“Ah, yes, instead of asking a warlock to break my curse or turning Aegon into a girl, we chose to turn the one person that was against this plan into a woman. Great planning, there,” he drawled, still in that unemotional way he only used when he was trying not to resort to punching people. He still didn’t know how he would fare in a fight with the new balance required to move in a slightly shorter, female body with wide hips and added weight on the chest.

“Well, Egg does have the better claim, and the warlock said he couldn’t break my curse--”

“Aegon got here with the backing of the Golden Company, which has damned him to be perceived forevermore as a damn Blackfyre pretender; even if  _ we _ know he’s the real deal, and that he’s convinced the Golden Company to fight for him by manipulating their prophecy of a dragon taking them back home,  _ what do you think it looks like to the rest of Westeros?” _ He snapped. “I grew up in the North, knowing many of the Lords that fought for us against the south, and even the southerner Lords knew of me, and agreed my uncle’s story was too odd and out of character for him, and even if I am a Targaryen bastard, my bastard claim comes from the main male line much, much further up the succession line, from Daeron the Good’s descendants.” He paused, took a breath, and ran his fingers through his (slightly longer) hair. They snagged on a knot, and struggling with it ruined a bit of the stern effect he was going for. “Plus, didn’t it clue you in that maybe you’re not cursed at all, when a warlock said he couldn’t break a curse when that’s what his entire guild specializes on?”

They stood there, looking at him with their stupid, dumb lilac eyes that were so alike, differently from his own only slightly smarter deep indigo ones, blinking owlishly as if the idea had only just occurred to them.

He sighed heavily.

“From the lack of response you two are giving me, I’m going to assume that this cannot be reversed, and you two don’t want me punching your stupid faces in once I regain any semblance of comfort in this body. But rest assured, both of you. I won’t punch you.”

“You won’t?” Aegon said, that stupid, bright smile he liked so much directed at him, hopeful like a newborn puppy.

“Oh, no,” he said, smiling sweetly, putting his arms like Sansa always did, in that particular way that made girls’ breasts look bigger, and delighted in seeing Aegon’s eyes cross a bit. “I’m just gonna marry a Velaryon cousin. What was the name of that bastard brother of Lord Monford’s again? Aurane? He’s pretty enough.” His smile widened as he saw the shock and  betrayal on Dany’s and Egg’s faces.

“You can’t!” Aegon protested, jaw dropping.

“Oh, I can’t now? I’d say you gave away any rights to vetting who I can and cannot marry, or even have children with, when you did  _ this _ to me without my consent,” he snarled right back, squaring up his shoulders and walking past them, trying to end the conversation there, but his aunt and brother wouldn’t be swayed.

“You can’t do that, Aemon, we need to keep the blood of the dragon as pure as we can, now that we have dragons back!” Dany was running after him, his strides still longer than hers.

“I said Lord Velaryon’s bastard brother? I meant Tormund Giantsbane, how stupid of me,” he said, a look of false surprise on his face. “I’m gonna ask Tormund to steal me, and I’ll bear him many ginger, purple eyed babies, now that’s the life!”

Dany looked ready to protest further, but Aegon caught up to them, putting a hand on her shoulder.

“He’s just gonna suggest more and more people without a drop of dragonblood, he’s messing with us, Dany.” Aegon had a sad expression, and Jon couldn’t say he didn’t enjoy it.

“You’re entirely too serious, brother dearest,” he sing-sung, batting his eyelashes at Aegon. “Depriving me from the chance of seeing our lovely aunt’s face when I suggested marrying Tyrion.” He stopped in front of Arya’s room, and knocked, waiting for a response.

“You’re having entirely too much fun lording our mistakes over our heads, there, Aemon,” he said, frowning.

“Someone needs to keep you both from making more stupid mistakes, like  _ turning your brother into a sister permanently without thinking it through _ ,” he hissed.

“Can you stop being loud at daybreak, people are trying to sleep,” Arya grumbled, sleepily, and then stopped right in her tracks. “Uh. Who are you.”

“Your brother, Jon. The short story is, these idiots hired a warlock and messed up behind my back, can I borrow one of your spare boots?” He said, gently shoving Arya to gain access to her bedroom, quickly locating one of her older boots before plopping heavily on the chair by Arya’s desk and looking at his relatives at the door. “As for you two, you better not have ordered a whole wardrobe of dresses for me following your mess-up, or I swear I will fuck off to marry the first willing person with absolutely not a single drop of Targaryen blood, was I clear?”

They looked at each other guiltily.

“Well…” Dany started.

“Un-fucking-believable. At least tell me you two had the good sense of hiring a Wintertown seamstress, instead of sending a rider to King’s Landing.”

They nodded as she stood, and there were at least small mercies in the world.

It took surprisingly less time than he imagined it would to get used to moving in this new body. Sure, his center of balance was definitely lower, and sometimes he still knocked things over with his breasts or hips, but Sansa and Arya were fast to assure him, it was normal and it never actually went away.

“At least you won’t have to learn a whole new, different sword style, so cheer up a bit,” Arya said, happily browsing through Jon’s new selection of more fitting clothes and the damned  _ smallclothes _ . He’s always appreciated the way smallclothes looked on girls’ bodies; he never thought one day he’d have to put them on  _ his _ girl body.

“That’s the least of my concerns,” he huffed, looking at the three dresses that managed to get sneaked into his wardrobe.

“Oh, don’t be like that, it’s not gonna bite you to wear it for one night,” she mocked, slapping him in the face with the same words he told her once upon a time, before everything went to shit.

“This is not just one night, now, is it, Arya,” he grumbled. He picked the least offending one out. It was an almost solid black silk thing, with red dragons outlined in a deep blood red, courtesy of Sansa’s able hand. His only talent that could be reliably passed as womanly remained singing and playing a lute, which he was glad; as Queen, he wouldn’t have much need for sewing and embroidery, anyway, no matter how much Sansa insisted he needed to learn to help entertain the ladies of the court: he was still a man at heart and if the ladies wished to be entertained by Queen Visenya, they’d have to put on their riding and hawking leathers and go with him hunting.

“Oh, that one would make a statement.” She stood up to the top of her height, putting on what Rickon jokingly called her ‘kingly airs’ and did her best impression of Jon:  _ “You’re both dead to me _ . _ ” _

“Good, I was afraid my message wasn’t being sent with enough ravens,” he laughed, and picked up the undergarments he was supposed to put on. He had warned the seamstresses he wasn’t about to tie a corset too tightly, so he hoped they had listened and made the dress looser than it necessarily needed to be.

“Oh, no, they’re properly miffed and all,” Arya commented, like she was talking about a sibling rather than the King and Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. “The king in particular looks more upset than the queen, but Queen Daenerys is a bit harder to read than the king can ever hope to be.”

“Oh, you can bet the king is only so miffed because he was thinking with a head not on his shoulders when he agreed,” he said, shaking his head, remembering the conversation he had with Aegon prior to tonight’s feast.

Aegon should’ve known better than to assume things; he was so smart for some things, like military strategy, and  _ so incredibly stupid _ when it came to understanding people and their moods.

“How comfortable are you now, living as a woman?” Arya carefully asked, as she wrestled a corset on him; he knew he had to put it on, but he was still wary of the blasted garment, and if he could, he’d outlaw the damn things as soon as possible.

“Ouch, don’t pull so hard! And it’s weird. People that are usually around us have known me from before, so they don’t act any different, mostly, but then the other day the Greatjon was telling us a crude joke, and he stops halfway because he remembered I was there.”

“You get used to it,” Arya said, mildly.

“But that’s just the thing, isn’t it, Arya. I don’t want to get used to it. I got used to having the Free Folk around, and the free women speak just like the Greatjon, worse sometimes, and I do not need for men to feel the need to withhold their tongues now.” He sighed. “Do you think murdering the warlock responsible would end the spell?”

“That is not a glamour, Jon, this was a full on spell that used likely the blood of a female relative for reference, and some way of getting you to drink or eat it, if my experience serves right,” she answered, toneless, borderline on the way she was when she finally came home.

“Oh well, it would relieve some of my anger, that’s for sure,” he muttered, miffed.

“Just stop squirming, I need to tighten this right.”

She put a foot on his back and pulled on the strings in the middle of the corset, while he hang on for life on the edge of his desk.

“Isn’t… isn’t this too tight?” He felt a lot short of breath and yet he knew that the answer was to be disappointing.

“Hah, the sides aren’t even touching each other yet. We did ask the seamstresses to put some allowance in the dress size, and you’re not all that shapeless like a regular, good  _ northern _ girl, so people shouldn’t notice.” Arya huffed while she knotted the strings snug and tight to the corset. “Now pull those boobs up and you’ll get a little breathing room.”

He blushed , and looked downwards. Even after a few months, he still couldn’t get used to the idea of having breasts. He figured he’d never get used to being called ‘Visenya’ either; he had  _ just so _ gotten used to Aemon. Putting his fingers flush to his skin, he pressed on the soft mounds and pulled them slightly up. Arya was right, it did give him some relief breathing; her corset-putting technique did hold some merits, after all, after the pain of having his breasts squashed uncomfortably.

His dress had long, loose sleeves made of black, translucent silk that ran over the entire dress. The cotton fabric underneath was also coal black, with Sansa’s embroidery outlining dragons in only shadows, a witty metaphor to a ‘hidden’ prince. The cuffs of the sleeves, hoowever, were embroidered with white direwolves in very clear, shaded stitches, which was a nice touch. Aegon and Dany insisted that the silk overlayer be peppered in tiny rubies that glinted like blood drops as he moved. All in all, if he could get away wearing only this one dress when the occasion called for, he would do so in a heartbeat.

“You ready, Your Grace?” Arya mocked, in a terrible curtsy.

“Ready as I’ll ever be, I wager,” he said, tired of the feast already, but determined to go, if only to glare some more at his brother and aunt.

The feast was a subdued affair. It was to be a farewell to the royal family, after all, and the Northmen were saying goodbye to their former king, while said Targaryen prince seethed in his seat, doomed by his own relatives’ shortsightedness to wear dresses and gowns.

The only one seeming to find anything to be amused with, was Tormund.

“Lookin’ like yer past, Queen Crow,” he mocked, lifting a tankard to her. “‘Tis nice ta see yer pretty mug afore we get back north!”

Aegon looked ready to kill Tormund, and he couldn’t keep the giant smile that spread across his face, letting go of Aegon’s arm and going straight to the Free Folk’s tables, where Tormund shooed the people around him, booming about Queen Crow coming to grace them with her time.

“Ah, there she is, ain’t she a beauty, a balm for ol’ Tormund’s soul,” the man said, winking at her.

“You mean a punch on your face and a kick in your dick, you old lecher,” he replied without missing a beat, and the table exploded in laughter, even Tormund booming above everyone else, putting an arm around him and hugging him sideways.

“That’s the crow I remember! Give the kneeler queen some ale, for fuck’s sake!”

A servant girl, apparently terrified of the Free Folk still, went to oblige, and Jon’s merriment only increased when he gulped down the entire contents of his tankard, to the delight of the table full of fighters and spearwives.

He looked to the high table where Dany, Egg, and the Starks sat at, and waved enthusiastically at them, which made his cousins smile with poorly concealed amusement, and his aunt and brother’s expression sour.

“So they did a Southroner magic on ya, did they,” Val asked, smirk barely hidden by her drinking horn.

“Aye,” he said, fervently. “To keep the blood pure, or some shite, as if magic like that diluted down the line a lot. If that happened, surely Aegon and I wouldn’t be one bit able of riding our dragons, with as much Andal and First Men blood we have. Even Queen Daenerys would have trouble, no matter that her parents and their parents before them were brother and sister.”

“What a tripe,” Val said, huffing. “The Warg King was defeated how many years ago, and the Starks still can warg, even being more than a little Andal.” She pulled a pheasant leg apart gracelessly, and began biting at it, pensively.

“Try a lot,” he said, airily. “And what about me, then? Had the Children’s magic diluted so much since Brandon the Builder and the Andal invasions, what would that mean to me?” He grabbed a piece of boar for himself before continuing. “It’s all tripe, to be honest.  _ Magic diluting _ , what in the seven hells. Magic doesn’t respond to men and barely to any gods, it sure as fuck wouldn’t  _ dilute away _ . I have half a mind to go through with the threat I made, if only to see Aegon squirm.”

“And what would that be?” Val asked, through a mouthful of food.

“I threatened to marry Tormund as payback for turning me into a woman without talking to me.”

Val choked on her bread and ale, laughing.

The feast was merry, for a farewell. Jon was feeling very merry, around his fifth or tenth tankard full of ale, enough to forget himself and behave very much like the man he was, sitting like one and letting Val manhandle him a little while blushing madly, but smiling (or maybe that was just him and him alone that reacted like that to Val).

He thought it was a very dignified reaction to being kissed by a beautiful woman to be stunned for so long she became worried, and only became able to speak in stammers when you finally got your tongue back.

“Wha-- You said if I ever done this you’d cut my cock off,” he said, and only after it was out in the air he noticed how stupid that was; he didn’t have a cock anymore.

Val seemed to have thought the same, because she smiled wickedly.

“Well, you didn’t do a thing, now, did you, Lord Crow. And last I checked, you ain’t got none of those anymore.”

He narrowed his eyes, looking at Val as sternly as being halfway to piss drunk allowed him.

“You just want to ask to ride my dragon,” he accused.

She smiled wickedly.

“Well, that might’ve passed through my mind once or twice,” she admitted, smiling.

“A tad too late for that, isn’t it, princess? Gotta have to ask my brother for one of those rides,” he japed, horribly, but it did make Val smile more, and truly, that was the goal here, wasn’t it?

“The fire-breathing kind, I meant.” She paused, one hand on top of Jon’s breasts, and wasn’t  _ that _ a little surprise, how nice it felt. He was so hot all over, he almost missed the warmth between his legs. “But really, what if I told you I might be interested in some dragon petting?” She asked in a tone that left no doubts that what she wanted to do to Jon was definitely  _ not _ ask him to pet his actual dragon, much less pet  _ him _ .

“I-- I wouldn’t be opposed to that…” he trailed off, wide eyed and very, very interested in the conversation.

Val was so, so close to kissing him again, when someone spoke, and Jon wanted to feed this particular person to his direwolf, if Ghost hadn’t been so preoccupied hunting in the Wolfswood.

“Oh, so you were going to see the dragons, too? I didn’t want to go alone,” Aegon said, his anger and jealousy barely concealed in his voice.

“Ah, the king of kneelers,” Val greeted, doing a really, intentionally bad curtsy. “To what do we owe you the pleasure?”

“I was going to see the dragons, and I heard  _ my sister _ ,” he said, forcefully, “say you two were going to go too, so I figured you’d need a male company for safety.”

He barely had finished the word ‘safety’, and Jon and Val were dissolving in giggles. Aegon was turning redder by the second, and it only added to their laughter.

“Safety, the southron boy says!” Val said, borderline hysterical.

“Aegon, how much did you have to drink that you forget I am a fine swordsman, and Val here is a  _ spearwife _ , for crying out loud!” Jon couldn’t help but needle it in a little more. “We don’t need you to protect us,  _ Your Grace _ , but by all means, go ahead and tell us how much we need you for protection.”

Aegon walked off in a fury, and both Val and Jon had to lean on each other for balance, because they were definitely laughing too hard at the indignity of the southern king. By the time they finished laughing, however, the energy between them was gone, and exhaustion washed over Jon a little.

“Well, your brother is a real bore, isn’t he,” Val said, shaking her head.

“That  _ is _ the man who chose to have an extra wife than to think through some words in a poorly worded curse, or even check a family tree book at all. So yes,” he agreed, “He’s a bore.”

“You southrons put way too much stock in who was married to whom.”

“Maybe so, but I have to say, not keeping track of it does have its merits. After all, it prevented the Red Woman from setting all of you on fire, didn’t it? Once King-Beyond-the-Wall, always King-Beyond-the-Wall, isn’t it? Not to mention the Stark blood in your veins,” he pointed out.

“It’s still too much stock. Plus, who the fuck even knows who their sire was, anyway? Your mother is all you need to know, she’s the one who bled for you.”

Val’s words resonated with the resentment Jon felt deep down.

He figured he might as well try to sleep, if nothing else; today was already so eventful he wanted to rest fully before committing himself to being atop a horse for hours in the morrow.

_ But as the gods give, they take _ , he thought, angrily, as he found Aegon sitting on a chair in his rooms. He did his best to ignore his brother, who was still seething and looking at him with an unnerving intensity, but one could only get out of so much silk and drapery.

“If you’re gonna stay there, being a creeper grumpkin, you might as well make yourself useful,” he told Aegon, who startled.

“Thought you didn’t see me,” he said, sheepishly.

“Ah, yes, very easy to ignore the valyrian-looking man twice as tall as you, glowering at you as if you offended his very forebears, sitting on the corner,” Jon deadpanned, pursing his lips.

“I was thinking,” Aegon started, pulling on the fastenings of Jon’s dress to loosen it more.

“That’s a tad too late for that, don’t you think? Wouldn’t want to start a track record that you actually can,” Jon said, acidly.

“Oh, come off it! I was thinking that if you’re really that upset, you can teach me how you got  Daenerys with child, then you’d be free to marry whoever you want,” he finished, subdued.

Jon froze, standing stock still as Aegon unlaced his corset, a million thoughts running through his head.

“She’s what?”

“With child, the maester told her this morning,” Aegon replied, simply, as if he hadn’t just stripped Jon’s world of ground.

“And what makes you so sure that it’s mine? For all I know, it’s yours.” Jon huffed, not wanting to get his hopes up at having *some* of him from before remaining in the world.

“Ah, yes, I impregnated the queen some four months ago, when she was still convinced I was a Blackfyre, until I got so angry I nearly flooded the Mander. That’s exactly the timeframe,” Aegon quipped, poorly. He wasn’t very good at sarcasm as he was with lying. “Of course the baby is yours, Jon.”

“Oh, so that’s how you managed to convince her. I thought too much intermarrying  _ diluted the magic _ ,” Jon said, almost venomously.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Jon, how many times will I have to say I’m sorry?” Aegon was exasperated now, pulling on the corset with more force than necessary.

“Until I forgive you,” he said, annoyed and tired and still a bit drunk. “I’ll only forgive you the day I give birth to  _ your _ child.”

Aegon looked hopeful, then like Ghost had just peed in his supper.

“You don’t even let me touch you, now.”

“Exactly,” Jon said, more merry than he felt, pushing Aegon out of his room.

The more days on the road away from Winterfell, the more Jon wanted to spur his horse and run back to the North and his cousins.

The Kingsroad was still covered in snow, which normally would mean stupid snowfights with Bran and Rickon, had they not stayed behind in Winterfell. Initially, he’d thought of pelting Aegon and Daenerys while their guards and servants set up their tents for the night, but his mood only soured the longer they got from Winterfell and the True North.

He felt a bit stupid for feeling like they were stealing him from his home, since he agreed they would all go to King’s Landing sort the mess Aegon and Dany left in their wake. But now, with all the mess the two made all over again, Jon couldn’t help but feel like a kidnapped princess. From how little Northmen were coming with, to the sheer amount of Dany’s loyal Dothraki and Unsullied and Aegon’s companymen, he truly, miserably felt like all the tales of his mother crushed together into one unhappy voyage to his birthright home.

He retreated into the company of his guards, and eventually, once they were past the neck and the Northmen apologized for having to go back, for they not felt safe in the south, he retreated into the bottom of his wineskin.

They were well past Riverrun, past Oldstones and its ghosts, who truly danced with the wind in bursts of ghastly light and odd firefly formations, past Raventree Hall to give the bones of long-dead Lord Bloodraven to his long-estranged family.

“The Brackens will not be happy if we move on without visiting them,” said a man from the Golden Company.

“I, for one, am here to visit my kinsman, to deliver my kinsman’s bones, Ser Rivers,” Jon said, morosely, to the man. He didn’t even look at the knight, staring into the face of the Blackwood heart tree, bleary eyed and feeling more and more like a piece of him was staying north, like a homing beacon. He wondered if Bran could see him right now. Ghost sniffed the tree curiously, then licked it. Probably.

Aegon sighed, though said nothing about Jon’s words.

“Feel free to take pilgrimage to Stone Hedge, if you want, Tristan,” he said instead. 

They went past Riverrun, congratulated the Lady Tully on her beautiful Tully-looking baby boy, named Hoster, and past High Heart, where Nymeria awaited them, with her pack of smaller wolves.

Ghost behaved… oddly around Nymeria, much to everyone’s amusement. He wasn’t the litter’s runt anymore, but he was nowhere near as big as Nymeria, which Jon supposed still made him the runt, all things considered.

“I hope Arya and I don’t have wolf dreams tonight,” he said, to a weirwood stump. A crow nearby seemed to laugh at his misfortune.

Nymeria’s pack followed for a while, escorting them to the edge of the God’s Eye. They did not stay in Harrenhall, happy to leave it alone with all its curses and ruinage. In their camp, everyone’s mood seemed to grow somber, while Jon’s plummeted to new lows.

Viserion made a temporary roost in one of the castle’s ruined towers. Rhaegal must’ve followed, despite Viserion’s mood resembling Jon’s, and Drogon was nowhere to be found, likely still flying east, carrying Dany and Jon’s child away to Dragonstone. He looked upon the Isle of Faces, where his mother and father met, and married in according to the rites of the First Men, upon the God’s Eye’s shining surface. The water lapped at his feet from his perch on a low-standing rock, wetting the edges of the riding dress he became accustomed to. Ghost frolicked in the edge of the lake with Nymeria, who used her weight to boss Ghost around.

The sunset’s colors on the grove of weirwoods, reflecting on the lake as the direwolves played made Jon wish he had any artistic abilities beyond the lute, if only to capture a piece of the calm he felt, this close to the most sacred place of his gods.

“I think this was the most beautiful sunset I’ve seen to date,” Aegon’s voice rang from behind him. He turned startledly to look at his brother, and took a slap of his wet hair to the face. It has never been this long, and soon the northern tradition of keeping it loose would have to be forsaken in favor of the southron styles, which were more suited to his tighter, poofier curls. But for now he’d suffer the indignity of having his hair slap him in the face every once in a while.

“What are you doing here? Why aren’t you with your friends over there?” Jon asked, hugging his legs tighter, pulling them up to his chest as far as he could, feeling none of the fabric tension he expected. His dress’ material felt loose now, even without the corset; the weeks of travelling and barely eating must’ve caught up with him.

“Rolly mentioned you were too far from camp, and that you all but threatened guards and unsullied alike not to follow you. So I came to bring you some supper,” he said, smiling brightly. In Aegon’s hands were two bowls of rabbit stew, and the one he was extending to Jon seemed to have less meat and more broth than Aegon’s own.  _ Food for sick people _ , he realized.

“I don’t want it,” he said, stubbornly set on not eating anything that comes from Aegon, looking very skeptical when Viserion shoves small chunks of his charred meat at him, even.

“You need to eat, Jon, you can’t keep starving yourself for… I don’t even know why you’re doing it!” Aegon looked ready to start pulling on his own hair, looking worried.

“It didn’t feel like that when I left Winterfell for Dragonstone before the whole… mess with the Others,” Jon started. Might as well get it off him, for as little relief it might bring; Aegon won’t let his bride turn tail and run back to the North. “Like I was leaving home, I mean. I guess it’s because I knew I would come back, but now… Will I ever see Winterfell again? Will you and Daenerys ever let me go visit my cousins? Will King’s Landing and the court ever not judge me for being northern?”

Aegon seemed full of surprised now, because what he answered was not what Jon had expected at all.

“You could. Go North right now, I wouldn’t stop you. I don’t think anyone could, Viserion is too fast, and he  _ is _ a dragon.” He was looking at Ghost and Nymeria cleaning each other’s faces, Nymeria paying special attention to Ghost’s healed but frayed ear.

“I don’t believe you.”

“Jon, seriously. It’s way less travel time on dragonback. Viserion is fast, you could make it there in one day and a half, maybe less. The entire coronation affair, official appointments and investitures can wait until you get back. “

Aegon has never sounded so earnest to Jon, nor so sad. His brother’s shoulders were hunched as he said it, likely thinking that if Jon went, he might keep doing more and more frequent trips until came a day he didn’t leave.

“I didn’t mean I would go now. It’s just.” He sighed, trying to order his thoughts, pulling on one of his curls to think. “At times, even with all that’s happened, it feels like you’re taking me as a hostage for good behavior. It shouldn’t feel like that, we spent nearly two years in an almost perpetual night, with plenty of moments where you could’ve stabbed me in the back, or Daenerys, or any combination of us killing each other, but we didn’t. We’re alive, we sent the night away, but it still feels like you’re dragging me away and I’ll never go back.”

Aegon was silent for a while, thinking, before wrapping one arm around Jon.

“You’ve never been to King’s Landing. Your family’s track record with the city hasn’t been the best. I don’t blame you for feeling like that, but we wouldn’t live in the city. Or at least you wouldn’t.”

“What do you mean?”

“Daenerys means for us to marry, doesn’t she?” He asked, smiling softly. “The Prince of Dragonstone and his family usually live in the island, not the capital. Dragonstone is like a training school for monarchs, a kingdom in miniature, so to speak. You would have to be in King’s Landing very rarely, and so would our children.”

Jon sat in stunned silence for a while, before groaning and putting his forehead on his knees, holding it there with his hands

“Sometimes, I forget you two conspired dumbly to make me a woman,” he said, and Aegon probably gave him a look, because he could feel the confused gaze on his neck. “It’s true, I forget that I have this body, I forget what the tally for my moonblood in my tent means; I’m riding and I forget that people will look at me riding astride and make assumptions, whisper that I’m too wanton. And then you say that, and the reality of it all nearly crushes me with all the anxieties I learned in the last few moons. Does my dress reveal too much? Do I look proper enough? And even some that I borrowed from Sansa and her Ladies, like, are my hips wide enough for that?” His laughter sounded hollow, nearly broken. “Though, I’m glad I do not have to bear the brunt of the legacy of Blackfyre. Dark Sister can never replace Longclaw, but it was high time the Mormont’s blade went back to its rightful owner. Never have I saw a child happier to receive a longsword twice her size as a gift.”

“That was a sight, wasn’t it? Little Lady Lyanna nearly cleaving someone in half because she expected the sword to be heavier, and Lady Arya’s poorly disguised jealousy you gave a bannerman a better sword for her tenth nameday than you did for your own sister,” Aegon commented, laughing. “But yes, Dark Sister suits you fine, considering your long periods of brooding, wild moonblood sickness and your hair.”

“The offer to threaten your manhood in full sight of the soldiers is still up, if you want it,” he said, turning his head still on his knees to Aegon’s side, smiling.

“Feel free to do it, it surely should help with the moral, that the new Princess Visenya is her namesake through and through.” Aegon made a face that was not a cringe, but also not a smile.

“Oh, I’m so happy to be compared with a stillborn, deformed girl. I’ll give you that, we were both born too early.”

“Don’t be like that, you and I know perfectly well who everyone’s comparing you to.”

“Should I be glad they’re comparing me to her or sad that they will likely make the same of me as of the original Queen Visenya?” Jon straightened up to look again to the Isle of Faces. The sun was gone, though some of its light remained, enough that he could see the foreboding weirwoods and the bathing direwolves.

“Archmaester Gyldayn can eat his ghostly socks, for all I care about what the others might think. Just know, I won’t be marrying you out of pure duty.”

“But I will.” He felt more than saw Aegon’s anger rising, his temper barely contained. “See, before you wouldn’t even think before punching me, now you think you need to shield me from the ugliest parts of you. I don’t need you to do that. I have seen men before you came along, Aegon, I’m not a simpering maid, as much as your stupid warlock’s magic would have made me so.”

“Would you have me fistfighting you in the full view of the court?” He asked. “Have the courtiers start rumors that I am as mad as my grandfather?”

“We’re not in the full view of the court right now,” Jon said, simply, levelling Aegon with his best withering glare. “I’d give everything for at least you and Dany to treat me normally. You made a wrong thing, apologized, and now you act as if I am not still the man of one-and-twenty you two condemned to living as a woman; two wrongs don’t make a right, and you keep saying you do care, but keeps not proving it.”

“Well, then, punch me.”

“What?” He looked at his brother, bewildered.

“Punch me. You said so yourself, you’re still angry, and you keep waiting for me to start a fight, so take matters in your own damn hands.” Jon kept staring at him. “Well, see, it’s not that easy to punch someone like tha--”

He didn’t get to finish his sentence, because Jon punched him in the mouth.

“You don’t win fights by punching when they expect you to,” Jon said, sitting on Aegon’s belly, pinning his hands to the sides of his head.

“Fuck! You! I could’ve bitten off my tongue!”

“And yet, you haven’t done me that favor.”

He squeaked undignifiedly in surprise when Aegon surged forward, pushing him into the grassy ground of the lakeshore.

“You’re insufferable, you know that?” Aegon growled, annoyed, blood dripping lazily from his split lip. “All you do is whine and moan about that; I know, alright! What I did was a wrong thing, but at least I am trying to look past it! I keep trying to make peace with you, to get you used to how people will treat you, and I’m sorry none of it will be the same, and I’m sorry no one noticed Dany was merely malnourished and healing still! I just want to help you but you won’t let me!”

Jon used one of his legs to kick Aegon on the thigh. He muttered a curse, startled, and crumpled over Jon, who got his breath knocked out of him from Aegon’s weight. At least he had his wrists free, and he pushed Aegon off him, punching his brother in the chest for good measure. Aegon pulled him by the arm when he tried to sit up, and pinched his arm then  _ twisted _ , which was such a childish to do, and proof that even with all of that being said, he still underestimated Jon, so he took a deep breath and punched Aegon’s crotch.

“Jon!” He managed, a full minute later. “Why the fuck would you do that!”

“You pinched me! You can’t even fight me properly, you’re too busy trying to be proper--!”

He couldn’t finish, not with Aegon kissing him for all his worth, hand gripping his hair at the nape, and the other at his waist, pulling him onto his brother’s lap. After the initial shock, he put both hands at the sides of Aegon’s head, gripping his hair to the point of pain while straddling him, and a voice in his head that sounded suspiciously like Sansa whispered that it wasn’t proper for a lady, much less a princess, to be sitting on men’s laps, let alone straddling them like they mean to ride them like a stallion.

Aegon let both hands slip down Jon’s back, before pausing on his backside, squeezing softly. That earned him a grown from Jon, who bit his split lip with enough force to make it bleed some more, and their next kiss tasted metallic.

“Gods, we can’t even fight properly anymore,” Aegon said, breathless, before going for Jon’s neck, peppering it with kisses and pressing his hands, pulling Jon’s hips into his.

Jon was no stranger to another man’s body touching his, but the marked difference between then and now was startling for him. There wasn’t  _ his _ own cock to answer the friction, for one, and when Aegon’s mouth trailed blood and kisses down to his dress’ neckline, right onto the top of his breasts, he thought he might die.

“Whose fault is that, again,” he breathed out, still pulling forcefully on Aegon’s curls, so like and unlike his own. “I’d still have fucked you back then, you know.”

That gave Aegon pause.

“Yeah?”

“I mean, you’re not as pretty as Satin is,” he started, gleefully needling at Aegon, who huffed in indignation, “but if you asked, I would’ve let you.”

“I don’t know whether I feel insulted or praised.”

“Help me out of my trousers and you can find out,” he said, and it wasn’t meant to come out as fervently passionate as it came out, but Jon wasn’t in a state of mind to care. His entire body felt on fire, his very blood seemed to sing and boil under his skin. Aegon’s hands went from his ass to his crotch, working on the lacing without looking, as Jon attempted to follow suit, but he found himself fighting the urge to squirm; having his legs spread as they were held a perverse delight inside him.

He knew that he was soaking wet in his folds; even as a man, he was so pathetically sensitive and easy to work up. Aegon seemed to notice his hesitation, but merely smirked, having finally unlaced his riding trousers enough to pull them down. He laid Jon into the bed of grass, pulling the pants and smallclothes down enough that he could slip between his legs, but it restricted Jon’s freedom of movement greatly.

“Why don’t you just take them off all the way, afraid I might kick you?” He asked, trying to sound stern and sarcastic, but the matter was, he felt too aroused to care about pissing his brother off (or maybe that was what he was going for, irritate Aegon into fucking him so deeply he could forget himself).

“A little. But really because I figured you’d want to get dressed quickly after that.”

“Why would I want to get dressed quickly?”

“There was a rider here when we arrived, remember? He had a message from the Queen, she’s coming from King’s Landing with documents she needs reviewing.”

“You’re telling me we need to be fast, and you’re boring me to death talking about our aunt coming over for official business?” He asked, yanking at Aegon’s shirt, while Aegon pulled on the neckline of his dress.

“You’re so annoying,” Aegon grumbled, and Jon lost half his patience, pulling him down for a bruising kiss and hips bucking into Aegon’s, before shimmying his arms out of the loosened dress, and Egg almost immediately pulled it down enough to attach his mouth to one of his breasts, while Jon gave up his fight to get Aegon out of his shirt, and just slid his hands into it, and dug his nails in, scoring down, making his brother hiss and his cock twitch.

“Don’t you mean, I’m right, you’re wrong, and talking is a waste of time?” Jon countered, scratching one of his hands down to Aegon’s hip, before taking his cock in his hand and pressing with his thumb under the head of it.

Aegon used his dress to clean a hand up before quickly sliding two fingers in, and between the stretch, the mild pain and the little alienness of having something in a place he’s never had before, Jon could barely suppress a very loud keen. He squeezed his brother’s cock, as Aegon’s hand went to help him guide it inside him, which was neither as painful as Sansa said, nor as painless as Arya hoped. It just was uncomfortable for a bit, but gods, if the heat coursing through him wasn’t comparable to his (admittedly small pool of) previous experiences, only slightly muted. That is, until Aegon smirked impishly at him, at the probably dumb expression he had, and rubbed his fingers over… something that made Jon’s body jerk into Aegon’s cock.

“Hmm, eager to have big brother’s cock all in, aren’t we,” Egg teased, and Jon wanted to cringe, to shove Aegon off and run back North and marry a wildling. But his entire body betrayed him, letting out a pitiful little moan, tightening around Aegon’s cock, and responding so well to Aegon’s well trained touches.

“That was horrible,” he managed, laughing a bit breathlessly,  _ “big brother.” _

It was clear what made Aegon tick when he said that and his brother buried his face in his breasts before letting out a loud groan. He laughed more, and Aegon followed, and soon they were moaning in tandem, the vibrations of their voices doing things to their bodies where they joined, and Aegon started moving slowly, clearly more to his own benefit than Jon’s, because by the third stroke in, Jon wished he had foregone the pants, because the restricting was getting in the way of letting him pull Aegon closer and urge him faster without words.

“Is that all you can do?”

Aegon growled at him, purple eyes glinting dangerously in the light.

“Clearly, little  _ sister _ ,” he said, punctuating the last word, “I’m trying not to spill too early in your beautiful little cunt.” Aegon bit his neck and Jon’s hand went right into his scalp, pulling at the roots forcefully.

“Oh, is that it? I thought you were trying to  _ make love _ to me while I’m clearly just trying to fuck you,” Jon growled.

“Brat,” was all Aegon said before sheathing himself back forcefully, snapping their hips together so strongly that Jon felt himself slipping up the lakeshore grass.

“Gods, do that again,” Jon snapped his hips to meet Aegon mid-thrust, asking for,  _ demanding _ more. He dug his nails harder into Aegon’s scalp, nearly ripping some hairs off, and his brother straightened up, prying Jon’s hands off his hair.

“Please,” he said, punctuating the word with a thrust, “don’t scalp me, ‘Senya.”

All Jon did as answer was grab Aegon’s arms and scratch those. He was hellbent on letting Aegon know the consequences of not complying with what he wanted, while calling him ‘little sister’ and ‘Visenya’ while he fucked Jon’s brains out, was bodily harm. Aegon seemed to find ir funny, though, smiling widely as he was back to slow thrusting. Jon was on his last nerve by then, everything feeling like he was about to set the lakeside on fire through the sheer want in his body.

He pulled Aegon by the shirt into him, slotting themselves flush chest to chest.

“Either fuck me like a wolf-bitch, or let me go to someone who will,” he growled, shoving his hands under Aegon’s shirt, scratching him as hard as he could in hopes of drawing blood.

That seemed to spur Aegon on, and the ground seemed to cede a little under them, the lake mud seeping wet into Jon’s dress along with grass in his hair each time his brother thrust his cock right into him, again and again, almost frantically, and Aegon’s mouth attached to a nipple, biting in then sucking, licking around it as it hardened in the cold twilight air. Jon whined; surely a body wasn’t meant to withstand this much pleasure for so long, he thought as he felt himself contracting, swallowing in Aegon’s cock inside and deeper, until he felt his brother’s seed spilling inside him and sparing only a hysteric thought to how this was how you begot bastards, before Aegon moved  _ again _ and he was still so sensitive, his entire body convulsed and twitched almost painfully.

“Was that good, baby sis?” Aegon asked, and Jon frowned, pursing his lips.

“I’m your brother,” he whispered, confused.

Aegon pointed with his eyes to the side, where a few companymen were making their way to them. They had slowed down considerably at having taken in the situation they found themselves into, but were already into hearing range. Everything about the God’s Eye was so quiet you could find a dragonfly while it pranced around.

“We better get somewhat presentable, I believe,” Jon muttered, surprised at himself for being upset at his interrupted afterglow.

(Later they were surprised that they were so engrossed in their… activities, they didn’t hear Drogon landing nor the dragons screeching in greeting. Daenerys looked very amused at it, but Jon got the final laugh, as after just a few minutes, blood started finally peeking through his shirt, and everyone thought the Prince of Dragonstone was dying of some curse inflicted by the old gods. That was, until Jon raised one hand, showing the dried blood under his nails. Aegon was unable to sleep on his back for a week.

“Worth it,” he told everyone that cared to listen.)

(Jon did end up having to forgive Aegon and Dany two moons later, as Dany gave birth to a little boy with her lilac eyes and his dark, dark curls, and Jon found himself throwing up at the sight of lemoncakes.)


	17. Fem!Jon/Aegon VI; an empty room is an opportunity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt: https://valar-morekinks.livejournal.com/6487.html?thread=2753879#t2753879
> 
> summary: aegon enjoys his baby sister's fashion choices a tad too much, even when it turns out the choices are someone else's

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 2k words of.... filth.
> 
> i have no excuse.
> 
> i promise i'll do my best to make the next chapter *not* jon/egg
> 
> pls enjoy

From the corner of his eye, he could see his little sister as she passed by, seemingly on official business, through the halls of Dragonstone, wearing her pretty princess crown and a pretty silky dress in a Volantene style that showed far too much skin. The skirt was flowy and drapey, while the bodice might as well be only her smallclothes, with the back completely nude and only a triangle of fabric covering her breasts.

“Egg, that’s improper,” Rhaenys scolded him, but sounded more amused than angry. His wife always did when it came to their little sister.

“I’m the Prince of Dragonstone and I will be King of the Seven Kingdoms one day, Rhae, I can do what I want,” he answered back, as always, once they were within earshot of their darling sister, who turned a fetching shade of pink.

He knew he had better things to do than torment his sister with his stares and some thinly veiled lewd comments, but he couldn’t help himself; not when Visenya insisted on wearing Volantene dresses, with their low necklines and even lower back cuts. The one she wore today plunged lower than usual, stopping just above her backside, in black Asshai’i silk, and the shoulders were beautifully adorned by pearl and smoky quartz chains that hung loosely at variating heights. That and the mother-of-pearl and silver hairclips that held her curls in the sideswept intricate braids, in the shape of tiny roses, running direwolves and nesting dragons. Aegon’s mouth watered at the thought of his younger sister on his bed, her dress torn and her hair in disarray, as he held her legs forcefully to the side and fucked her hard.

Lord Monford clearing his throat, clearly amused, brought him out of his reverie.

“My Prince, if you will, we should start the meeting.”

Visenya attended the meeting, as befitting her station as Aegon’s head of house, and Aegon was mostly distracted by it. Whenever she moved, the little chains made soft metallic noises, the silvery bracelets and hairclips glinted in the sunlight coming from the balcony, and once, he swore he could’ve seen a peek of her breast when she bent over to pick up a fallen quill.

“With this, I guess this meeting is adjourned,” he heard Rhaenys say, in a very amused tone, probably aware he spent most of the time ogling their younger sister.

“Yes, we shall reconvene at a later date, I will send the details for next meeting by raven, and warn of any surprises we may run along the way. Dismissed.” He rose and everyone else did as well, heading to the exit. “Except you, ‘Senya. I have some last minute planning for tonight’s feast with Father.”

Visenya sighed and rolled her eyes, but stayed otherwise. Rhaenys smirked before doing the same, and bowing out of the room in a mocking manner with the Lords of the Narrow Sea. She sat back in her chair, the one that had belonged to the first Visenya, and waited for Aegon to start to speak. Aegon, for his part, was waiting until the door was closed and the lords were out of hearing range.

“So, what was it you had to say about the feast? I thought we had it all planned out to the minutiae of what songs will be played,” she said, impatient.

“We have,” he agreed, getting off his chair and going over to Visenya, eyeing her intensely. The fabric of her dress shifted as she did, fitting beautifully on Visenya’s curves. “I didn’t actually ask you stay behind to talk, really.”

“Then what did you want?” She asked puzzled. Aegon looked more intently, from her hair, to her beautiful chest, to the skirts where he could almost make out the shape of her thighs. “I like your new dress. Is that silk?” He changed the subject, thinking that he might find out where to get more of these dresses. It couldn’t  _ hurt _ to have his beautiful little sister walking around like a very expensive Volantene courtesan only he could afford.

“It’s Lysene gauze. I had it made with two panels because otherwise it would be too see-through. You know Rhaenys refuses to wear any sort of thing that doesn’t hail from Dorne, why do you ask, brother?” She frowned at him, confused. But now that she said, it was true. He could make out the shape of her bosom, the dip of her thighs, the shape of her legs through the dress’ fabric.

“No, I was thinking you look beautiful in this, and that maybe you should consider telling me the name of the seamstress so I can gift you more of these,” he said, hawkishly, leaning into Visenya, who, to her credit, didn’t lean away.

“These were a gift by our uncle Daeron, before you all but chased him away with a mace,” she said, amusedly, and Aegon’s mood soured. He didn’t like to be reminded he had to fight for Visenya’s attentions with his uncle, who was three namedays younger, with very classic valyrian looks, and a long list of foreign lovers.

“He has… a good eye for dressing women, I’ll give him that,” he growled through his teeth; admitting he could appreciate something Daeron did grated on his nerves.

“Is there something else you needed, Egg, or can I retire?” She asked, pushing the chair back and getting up, and as taut as the fabric was across her chest, he could almost make out the shape of her nipples.

“There was,” he said, straightening up before pulling her to him and kissing Visenya, a hand on her braided hair, the other on the skin of her back, and he was sure she could feel his cock hardening against her belly. He pressed her against the table, and the hand on her back slid down, down, past her buttocks, and grasped a thigh, the gauze from her dress warming as it touched her leg, and he pulled it up, around his hip.

“Aegon, stop--” she started, but he put kissed her silent.

“Don’t say you don’t want this, ‘Senya. Wearing this dress, don’t you think it was too obvious you were asking for this, little sister?” He whispered against her neck, and her breath hitched, almost in excitement. “This flimsy thing leaves far too little for the imagination, don’t you think?” He looked down her body, the hand on her nape sliding down her neck, onto her breasts, fondling one until the nipple pushed against the fabric, then settling on her naked waist. “It’s almost as if you’re not wearing any smallclothes, sister.”

She blushed, but managed a little smile, just as impish as his own.

“I’m not.”

“Is this the fate of every Targaryen man, now, to be tempted away by a wolf whore?” He mused aloud, and felt Visenya’s little whimper when he tugged the clasps of her dress’s chains free. They clanged on the table, softly, just as meekly as the girl under him, submitting to his will with a mischievous glint in her deep, dark grey eyes. His mouth found the side of a breast and he all but slobbered over it, licking and biting to his heart’s content, spurred on by the mewls and moans his beautiful, wanton little sister made.

Aegon was so glad his father had been so thoughtful as to provide him with a mistress of his own, a little sister to do as he pleased just as when they were younger, playing kissing games in her quarters, and she would let him kiss her folds. He had not taken Rhaenys’ maidenhead, no, she’d given it to their cousin Quentyn, but had Daeron got to Visenya’s before him, he would’ve been exiled for kinslaying.

“I almost want to rip this dress apart,” he told her, lifting her skirts frantically, eager to find her wet folds and bury his cock in them.

“Don’t,” she chided, mildly.

“I won’t, if only because I loved seeing you in it so much. But promise me, you’ll not wear it near Daeron, ‘Senya.”

She levelled him with a defiant look.

“And why would I do that, brother?”

“Because you’re mine, little sister.” He finally, finally slipped a finger into her, feeling the wetness that had already started dripping down her legs, the warmth that pulsed wantonly around his finger. “I know you like to fuck Daeron; no, don’t deny it, I know it is true; but I draw the line at seeing his smug face while he watches you wearing his gifts.”

“I don’t,” she started, and meeped under Aegon’s harsh stare, before steeling herself and trying again. “I don’t like fucking Daeron, but when you go to King’s Landing with Father, I get so terribly lonely in here,” she bemoaned, hands going to his pants, undoing the lacing that held it in place. “His cock is pretty but it’s not big brother’s.” She pouted cutely, and Aegon wondered if she ever told that to Daeron, then shook his head.

“You’re just as much of a whore as people say your mother was, aren’t you,” he growled at her, manhandling and pulling at her until he had her on her belly on the table, and moved the chains over her back again, marveling at the contrast and the lewd picture it painted, with her skirt twisted up around her hips, ass up in the air with one hand splayed on a cheek, spreading it and revealing her cute hole and glistening wet cunt. “A wolf in heat howling for a dragon to mount her.”

Aegon pushed inside her, and she scrambled her arms to reach that little nub that always had her screaming when they played naughty kisses. Like a wanton whore indeed. He pushed in, then out, and then so forcefully in again the hand that wasn’t feverishly rubbing at herself went up, trying to find any purchase on the table, nails raking on the wood to no avail. He fucked her, then, looking on, amazed, at his handiwork (cockwork?), seeing her undo herself and thrusting back onto his cock, begging, wordlessly, for more, which he complied, vaguely aware the table was creaking and its legs sliding forward but for the two paces he had to take as he buried himself into his little sister’s loose cunt, as befitted a little whore.

“I bet I could fit a finger or two inside you still, you’re loose like a port brothel’s whore,” he said, leaning in to lick and bite at Visenya’s neck.

“If you didn’t hate Daeron so, you could try fitting another cock,” she shot back, cheekily, the charcoal that made her eyes pop smudged from tears, her lips red and raw from desire. Aegon slapped her ass, hard, but it only drew a laugh out of her. “Hmm, maybe try fucking me harder, so I won’t be able to talk?” She suggested, dazedly.

“Maybe I should fuck your mouth and make you choke on my seed,” he threatened, but complied, belatedly realizing that what she moaned then sounded like agreement, and he almost spilled at the thought. But no, for that, he wanted her covered only in jewels; that particular fantasy would have to wait one of the warmest nights, when Rhaenys wouldn’t be expecting him.

She seemed to be thinking of it, because right then she pulled one of his hands and shoved two fingers inside her mouth, sucking them in as far as they would go, in and out, sloppily, while her entire body convulsed and her cunt constricted his cock. The scene was so lewd, so wanton, and Visenya looked so wrecked and well-fucked, he spilled, burying himself to the hilt, hoping to plant his seed and some ownership over his whore sister.

It took them a long while of just standing there, Aegon on top of Visenya, his cock softening, for them to catch their breath.

“Hmm, this was good, big brother,” Visenya said, when he finally got off her, her legs visibly trembling still. “Maybe we should try this more often,” she mused, putting her dress back together, then sighing at her hair, visibly losing hope of it ever being presentable today again. She obviously was going straight back to her rooms.

“We should try on a balcony, on the full view of court, one day,” he countered. “When I’m king, at the Red Keep.”

“Also, must we sneak around? Rhae knows we’re fucking, the whole kingdom knows we’re fucking, we’re married, too, Egg,” she accused, softly.

“Yes, but don’t you like it when we pretend Dae is your lover, not mine?” he said, smiling widely, and Visenya only rolled her eyes, fondly.


	18. Lyanna/Rhaegar/Elia, Robert Baratheon; double standards

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt: https://valar-morekinks.livejournal.com/6487.html?thread=2804567#t2804567
> 
> summary: little Aemon Baratheon is born with pale lilac eyes and black hair with a long silver streak. robert never stops to think that maybe that's how his wife feels.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh look, it's not filth!!!!
> 
> are yall proud of me? i'm proud of me.
> 
> it deviated a little from the prompt, but, i wanted to be a little funny before i inevitably find more filth to write.

Robert was more than furious.

His wife had scarcely birthed him a healthy son, and he was already planning treason, for indeed, his firstborn, little Lord Aemon Baratheon, named so at the insistence of his wife, looked ever so much like a little Aegon and little and less like himself.

Lyanna, however, was calmly waiting until her husband calmed down, holding their son in her arms, sitting peacefully in her birthing bed. Little Aemon didn’t even blink at his father’s loud raging, contently suckling at her breast.

“Are you done, Robert?” she asked, tired. Lyanna had been in labor for the greatest part of the day, and her bones were weary from it.

“I should beat you bloody for this, Lyanna,” he spits back, hand on his sword. Not that he could do anything, with Queen Elia and Prince Lewyn sitting with his wife. 

“It’s just all the Targaryen blood in your line showing, Robert,” Lyanna lied smoothly. “Didn’t the Queen That Never Was have the same coloring? Wasn’t she the daughter of a Baratheon with a Targaryen forebear, too?”

“You truly would have me believe such drivel, woman? I would know my own son from a bastard of my cousin’s!”

Lyanna continued impassive, just looking at her husband with nary a worry.

“Would you now? Have you carried him? Have you bore him? Will you even care for him until he’s old enough to learn how to fight with steel? Robert, you didn’t even know Edric was your bastard until Stannis all but shoved the facts in your face. Even if Aemon  _ was _ a bastard, do you not think it a tad in bad faith that you can whore yourself out, and I have to wait until you remember I exist?” She huffed, and Robert looked, if possible, even more infuriated by her words.

“Watch it, whore, you respect your Lord Husband!”

“Oh, I will, the day you decide to respect and honor  _ me _ for a change.”

Robert lost his temper, then, and went to slap his wife, but a hand stopped him. Prince Lewyn Martell stood, looking at him with an impassive face, and tightened his grip on his arm.

“You have disrespected your Lady Wife more than enough, Lord Baratheon. I have allowed you to speak, but I have also sworn an oath to the gods. The next time you strike Lady Lyanna will be the last time you have hands.  _ Such is the law _ , Lord Baratheon, and it’d do you well to remember.”

Robert stormed off then, probably to exact whatever physical punishment he planned to his wife on an unsuspecting squire. He would surely lose his hands and then his head by the end of the month, thought the prince with more than a little glee.

“But, do tell me, Lyanna, is the boy truly Robert’s?” Elia asked, amused.

“The timing makes it look like it, doesn’t it?” the Lady Baratheon said, cryptically. “The gods forgive me, but I am so gladdened that he was born two moons early.”

“Still, do you think it will hold with Lord Arryn and Lord Stannis?” the Queen asked, barely containing a smirk.

“Oh, I have no doubt that, if I tell Lord Arryn the same I told Robert, he will back me up. He is more than a little charmed by my eldest and his namesake, and Jon should be the next Lord of Storm’s End. A trueborn Baratheon. Robert can have his army of bastards and a trueborn heir he cares not for, I will care for my sons well enough,” she said, pushing down little Aemon’s hair and kissing his soft head.

“I shall tell the king of the good tidings, then, my lady,” Elia told her, and the Queen left the room.

Finally, Rhaegar would stop going about his prophecy, she thought, relieved and more than a little pleased. They couldn’t have had Lady Lyanna join them in bed for months now, and Elia so missed the way the pretty young thing licked at her.

Maybe before they executed Lord Baratheon for treason, they could have him watch what a good little whore his wild she-wolf wide was.


	19. Shireen Baratheon, Maegor I Targaryen; regrets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt: https://valar-morekinks.livejournal.com/6487.html?thread=2826071#t2826071
> 
> summary: shireen can see ghosts. they help. kinda.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> did i just write 4k words of shireen bonding with the dude who's like, the third worst king of westeros? yes
> 
> it's maegor apologist that's called right, or for those who speak the language, é passador de pano pro maegor que chama né
> 
> ALSO KNOWN AS: i didn't spend years in college to not know how propaganda works my guys, and all the maesters do is write propaganda in their histories.

Shireen meets the tall man when she’s four.

By then, Shireen has seen the sad lady, Rhae, who tells her stories of a bad man, a silly prince and his sun and moon wives; the old man with a crown of rubies, who likes telling her tales of dragons, and the screaming ladies, who are the reason Shireen avoids the lower parts of the castle. Lady Rhae tells her they scream because they don’t know they’re dead, and no matter how much they tell them, they don’t want to believe it.

But the tall man is different. He wears Grandpa Egg’s crown, and looks like him, but bigger, and he always looks so sad. That is why Shireen decides to approach him, really. She makes Lady Rhae and Grandpa Egg happy, so she does not know how the sad, tall man wouldn’t be happy.

“Go away, little one,” he grumbled, angry.

“I just wanted to know why you’re sad,” she asked, not understanding why he wanted her gone. “Lady Rhae says you should talk about it with someone when you’re sad.”

“I am not a babe anymore, now begone.”

“I am not a babe, I am four,” she huffed, standing straight like her septa told her. “I am a lady!”

That seemed to amuse the tall, sad man, who let out a sad huff.

“So you are. I haven’t been the kindest to little ladies when I lived,” he said, and Shireen cowed a little at his tone. He sounded worse than sad, he sounded like he didn’t think he should be happy.

She tells him so, and he laughs, but she doesn’t hear any happy in it.

“And so I shouldn’t, not with what I did, little lady.”

Shireen didn’t find out what he did until one day, when she was 6, she asked Maester Cressen which kings wore the crown of the first King Aegon.

“Hmm, let’s see. Aegon himself, the second Aegon, the first King Daeron. Oh, and Maegor the Cruel.” The old man tilted his head, curious. “Why do you ask, Lady Shireen?”

“Nothing,” she lied. At this point, she had learned enough to know that the maester didn’t think her ready to learn of the worst parts of each king’s reigns, which is why she had never learned of King Maegor’s reign at all, but it made sense. A tall, broad blond man who thought he shouldn’t be happy could only think that if he had done some real bad things. She asked Lady Rhae about it.

“Maegor truly did some very bad things in his time. You say you saw him?” She asked, a flash of fear in her eyes, and Shireen wondered if she was the kind princess that the horrible prince hurt in her stories.

“I have, but he doesn’t seem so mad. He always looks… sad.”

“He cannot hurt you, little lady, not in any way that could be seen, but if you think he’s hurting you with words, don’t hesitate to run to me or to Grandpa Egg.”

Lady Rhae never sounded so sad, nor so scared for Shireen, and she took it to heart.

“Why did you hurt the ladies?” she asked, the next time she saw Maegor.

“I do not wish to talk about it,” He said, not looking at Shireen.

“You have to. It could help you rest in peace,” she said.

And it was true. She knew Grandpa Egg and Lady Rhae lingered for reasons they felt Shireen was too young to be told, but just last moon, when she visited the Red Keep, she saw a ghost vanish right in front of her after she pestered it into telling her what was wrong. Aenys had felt guilty that he hadn’t been firmer, that  _ if only he’d been more like his father _ …

All the ones who lingered had regrets. Not all of them could see the regret resolved, but she was sure that what did it for Maegor’s brother was making peace with the past.

“Nothing will give me peace, little lady. I could talk about what ails me for all eternity, and nothing would ever redeem my soul from my ill deeds.” His voice was firm, but sad, and Shireen didn’t like it.

“Your brother thought that too, and he’s passed on,” she told him, but that only made him laugh in that sad, haunted tone, and Shireen wondered what could haunt a haunting.

“My brother was a weak thing, and simpering besides, but he was the best of us both. But you should be familiar with the saying,  _ accursed be the kinslayer in the eyes of the gods _ . It would seem they do truly mean all of the gods.”

She decided to ask him about his favorite place in Dragonstone. She knew from her septa that kinslaying was the worst sin a man could commit, and she knew from the people whispering in the market that her uncle Robert was one such. Uncle Robert was big, and loud, and she saw him hit his queen more than once, and her cousins looked nothing like her. She didn’t know what kinslaying was, but she did know such people were either bad to the soul, or cursed, or both.

She only learned what Maegor had done at age 11, running away from her father and the red woman, atop Ser Davos’ horse. They meant to burn her. Her own father was willing to throw her in the flames of the red woman for their strange god.

“Ser Davos,” she started, as they made camp in a hidden cranny near the Neck. “What did King Maegor do? Why is he a kinslayer?”

“It’s a gruesome tale, my princess. Why do you wish to hear it?”

“I had read, when I was younger, that King Maegor was a kinslayer, but I had not the age to understand what it meant. I must’ve forgotten up until now.” She twisted a lock of hair in her finger, shivering in the cold, the small fire they made so as not to raise smoke barely enough to cook their food, but not enough to banish the all-consuming cold that seeped through her furs.

“Very well.” Davos settled, looking at the little fire. “I’m not the most able at letters, my princess, but I heard the story from the maesters when I made port in Oldtown back when. King Maegor married a Hightower lady, but didn’t manage to get a son, so he married a Harroway girl, and was exiled with her. When he came back, he had a third lady in tow, a pentoshi witch by the name of Tyanna of the Tower, and not long later the Harroway woman birthed a monster, and Tyanna said it was because she was unfaithful to Maegor. He killed the Harroway bride and her entire family. He then killed his Hightower queen for speaking ill-mannered things about him.” Davos paused, looking at her. “You’re alright, there, princess?”

Shireen noticed she was crying. She quickly wiped her tears, and steeled herself.

“Yes, ser Davos, please continue.”

“With his wives but one dead, Maegor was still without heirs, so he took three new wives. His niece Rhaena, a Costayne girl and a Westerling girl, all widowed by him in one way or another. The Costayne girl and the Westerling girl announced their pregnancy, and the Westerling girl then died bleeding along with her deformed child. Maegor then seized Tyanna, and she admitted to both being barren and poisoning the others. When Lady Costayne birthed another stillborn monster. He was deserted by his niece and the realm at large then, and died on the Iron Throne, no one quite knows how. The maester I eavesdropped then, said this was all punishment for his kinslaying. When he rose to the throne, you see, he rose on the blood of his nephews Aegon and Viserys.” Ser Davos stirred the stew, that was more melted snow than meat, and looked at Shireen.

“Accursed is the kinslayer,” she said, repeating what Maegor had told her years ago.

She was back on Dragonstone when the Dragon Queen returned to her birthplace. Maegor looked like he’d seen a ghost in both the woman and the dragon.

“I coveted Father’s dragon,” he told her then, guilt in his eyes. “Lady Ceryse kept mocking me, telling me that my brother might be a weak king, but I was truly the weak one, dragonrider without a dragon. So I poisoned my father and to this day, people think the great Aegon the Dragon died of old age, telling stories to little Rhae and little Egg.”

“I’ve not much dealings with Hightowers,” she said, carefully, “but as the oldest house of the Reach, as they tell, they must’ve felt slighted when your father passed them for the Tyrells, and Lady Ceryse sounded like a really bad person.”

He snorted.

“Lady Ceryse hadn’t want to be the wife of the second son, she had told me as much.”

“Lord Davos said some maesters said, and he believes it, that had you not killed your nephews you might’ve had a child.”

“This Onion Knight of yours is partially right,” Maegor conceded, looking as the giant black dragon preened at the sniffles of volcanic ash. “But no one knew I had committed the highest kinslaying of all. I was cursed for killing my father. And for what? I should’ve listened to Mother. Taken a smaller dragon, as did Aenys, who had dreamed of Balerion as well. I’ve told you before, Lady Shireen, Aenys was the better of the Conqueror’s sons.”

“What did your mother tell you, then?” She asked, and the man turned to her, a little caught off guard. “What? If a long dead king says their long dead mother had good advice that would’ve made him a better person, it is advice worth preserving.” She smiled at him.

“Very well, my mother Queen Visenya, told me that any time a maester talks of family, or meddles with your family, they have overstepped their station and should stand to gain only a sword to the neck.”

“Lord Stark’s southron ambitions, that settled the ground for the rebellion that shattered your house, were based on the advice of a Maester,” she said, remembering the sad ghost of Lady Lyanna that hung around the now King in the North.

“Like I said, whenever a maester wants to mess with state affairs more actively than just counsel, they should be ran through with the sword. No maester should be a kingmaker. No faith should be a kingmaker. A king or queen should make themselves.”

“Surprisingly good advice from the second or third worst king in Westeros,” she joked. The ghosts never could hurt her.

“I am relieved and somewhat offended I am not the first. Whatever did my brother’s descendants do to displace me?”

Shireen thought for a while before answering.

“There are several kings with unfortunate stories that come to mind. Aegon Dragonsbane was so afraid of dragons after he watched his mother be eaten by his uncle’s Sunfyre, that he never got close enough to notice that all dragons after were being poisoned by his Grand Maester, he’s told me. And before him, King Viserys the first named his daughter the Princess of Dragonstone, but married a Hightower, Lady Alicent, who we all know, historically, to have been a grasping woman, much how you described your Lady Ceryse. But Rhaenyra wasn’t much better, spoiled and entitled, who tried putting her bastards on the throne and later married her uncle, who was rumored would be just like you were in life. Then comes the worst king in Westeros, Aegon the Unworthy, the fourth one of that name. Never seen his ghost, but I’ve seen his brother, Aemon the Dragonknight. He gave Blackfyre to his bastard by his cousin Daena, and started rumors his son and heir Daeron was actually the Dragonknight’s son, because he wanted to put his bastard Daemon on the throne instead.”

“Sounds like the Unworthy was truly worthy of one thing in his life,” he said, and Shireen looked at Maegor, wide eyed in surprise. “His moniker. But, did his queen cuckold him?”

“Not for his heir,” she said, shaking her head. “On his deathbed, he legitimized all his bastards, though. It led to various uprisings called the Blackfyre Rebellions. The last one happened just before Uncle Robert’s. Ser Barristan, that’s the knight with Queen Daenerys, in white, fought in it, and he slew single handedly Maelys the Monstrous. He was called like that because he killed his twin in the womb, and had his brother’s head peeking out, from his neck, to prove it. The first Blackfyre pretender, though, was truly his father’s son, while his trueborn brother was more of his mother’s.” She paused, breathing deeply. “Queen Naerys has always been spoken of as a nice, scared young woman, whose brother-husband cared naught for, and bled in the birthing bed for him and still he cared none. The Dragonknight said Queen Naerys died every time she gave birth to Aegon’s children, and she died for his Daenerys too, albeit less. She couldn’t have been well being forced to carry children by a man who mistreated her and made her beloved watch, bound by oaths not to kill the king where he stood for beating his wife.”

“Who’s the contender for second place?”

“The last Targaryen King, Aerys the second. He was called the Mad King and King Scab by the populace. Lady Rhae-- his wife, Queen Rhaella, that is, told me he planned to blow up King’s Landing when the rebel army came, and truly thought he’d be reborn as a dragon. But not before making his kingsguard watch as he raped his wife after burning innocent people with wildfyre.”

“I yield. This second Aerys is truly no match for me.”

“He died by the hand of his own kingsguard, a boy of seventeen, the oldest son and heir to his former friend, the former Hand Lord Tywin Lannister. Lord Lannister died in the privy, by the hand of his own dwarf son.”

“I almost sound as if in life, I was sane,” Maegor shook his head, smiling humorlessly. “Thank you for your stories, little lady.”

“I’m only trying to help.”

“You should ready yourself, Lady Shireen. My brother’s descendant will soon walk in, it won’t do you any good to dawdle.”

He was right. Queen Daenerys’ retinue was impressive, with her eight thousand unsullied, three dragons and a slew of advisors from all walks of life, almost all Westerosi.

She could’ve sworn then she saw a ghost hovering around Daenerys. He looked fierce and deadly in his warpaint, his long braids and beard ornate with bells. But as soon as Daenerys stepped inside Dragonstone, he faded.  _ Must’ve served his purpose _ .

“Welcome to Dragonstone, Queen Daenerys,” she greeted, with all regality she could muster, being only a girl of 12. Ser Davos stood by her with his remaining son and wife. They were her only household in the empty keep.

“I thank you, my lady. Who are you?” The queen asked, uncertain and caught by surprise; she had not expected anyone to hold the castle, much less seen the girl, small as she was, or her retinue, who wore dark colors and all but blended in with the dark stone walls.

“My name is Lady Shireen Baratheon, last trueborn daughter of House Baratheon. Dragonstone is yours, my queen,” she yielded the castle, bowing low. Ser Davos kneeled, and his son and wife followed suit.

“I must say, I did not expect this reception, nor any reception at all,” Daenerys said, mildly, as if sensing a trap.

“My poor baby, what a hard life she must’ve led without me,” Lady Rhae cried quietly beside Shireen.

“It is not hard to spot three dragons scouting ahead, Your Grace. The shore villages have been warned of them, and some of the luckier landowners are toasting the return of the dragons, as the goat population was getting out of control.” She almost winced at how young she sounded, but then, the queen was barely older than herself.

“I cannot help but feel like this has been too easy, my lady. What is it you demand?”

Shireen looked at the queen in the eye, before looking at Davos, who nodded.

“I want Storm’s End, a good and just monarch on the throne, and the Faith of R’hllor banned in the Seven Kingdoms,” she enounced, like she had practiced in front of her looking glass.

“The first two are understandable,” a dwarf who could only be Tyrion Lannister spoke, what was left of one eyebrow raised. “But why the third one, my lady?”

“I bear the Red God no love for it tore my family apart, as it stands to do again in the North, as long as the red woman is there, counseling my father. I would be happy if Father was spared, but I know how stubborn my Lord Father is. It took my Uncle Renly, it took my mother, and it almost took me, Lord Lannister.”

“How were you so sure that the queen wouldn’t give you the same fate you ran from, then, Lady Baratheon?” the dwarf shot back.

“The queen’s deeds in Essos did not strike me, nor a friend who’s quite more well learned, as tyrannical, nor did she seem like the ilk of her father to burn a child alive.” The queen recoiled at the mention of Aerys. “I’d rather put my faith in the queen that might yet decide not to burn me, than in a god set on burning me in virtue of my blood.”

As soon as the queen dismissed her, she walked slowly to the family tower, then ran to her solar, and skidded to a halt as she saw a bright golden eye looking in from her balcony,  _ standing in _ her balcony.

“Beautiful creature, isn’t it,” she heard Maegor say.

“It scared me,” she answered, truthfully.

“Yes, but it is merely curious. Dragons usually burn to a crisp anything that displeases them, when unbound.”

She got closer and closer, enough that she could smell the dragon’s breath. Hysterically, she knew the queen would come later to claim her quarters, as Shireen had foolishly kept settled into the Royal Suite, as did her father before her, and the dragon had likely sensed its mothers’ intent.

“Thankfully, it is only curious. Do I smell like kin, to you?”

“He’s likely smells your greyscale, child,” Maegor told her, sadness seeping through his voice again.

“Lord Commander Snow’s wildlings kept saying that these were a sleeping death, my scars. That it yet stirs within, in waiting.”

“In ancient tomes in the vaults of Dragonstone, they said it was borne of the Rhoynar’s curse upon the dragons. That the river Rhoyne curses us still.”

“Have there been cases where grayscale was contracted by one without Valyrian blood?” she asked.

“None that I know, my lady,” a voice said, from the door. The Naathi woman Queen Daenerys introduced as Missandei was standing there, proper and ladylike.

“It is a curse, then.” She said, unhappily.

“It would seem like. There is a tale in Astapor, that greyscale is but the fate of all ill things molten by fire when it touches sacred waters.” Missandei looked uncomfortable, seemingly not wanting to disrespect her by looking at her scars.

“I don’t mind people staring, Lady Missandei,” she offered, kindly. “It is what it is. I shall never be a pretty thing, and I’ve made my peace with it. Though, now that you are here, which one is the one peeking into the solar’s balcony?”

“That would be Rhaegal,” she said, glad for the change in subject. “Her Grace’s most loyal child.”

“He’s a beauty. With your leave, my lady, I should ask the queen for maids to move my things, should she want the Royal quarters.”

She did no such thing, instead looking for the peace of Aegon’s Garden. No one went there, half wild as it was, but since coming back from the north, the wildness of the garden gave her some measure of peace. Almost akin a godswood.

“Now, where could I have touched something that was sacred and tied to water,” she mused aloud.

“Your fool,” Maegor said.

“Patches? But… As you said, he is a fool.”

“A fool that drowned and should be dead. What is the name of the Ironborn god, again, my lady?”

“The Drowned God. You think Patchface is some kind of emissary?”

Maegor shook his head.

“If dragons returned through blood magic, R’hllor is bringing back the dead, the Old Gods of the forest did not stay behind, and those they do not deign to bring back are being raised by the Ice Gods? Why not a drowned fool an emissary of the Drowned God of those pests in their rocky homes?” He shrugged, and for the first time she could discern the blood in his black clothes. It went all the way up to his neck. The Dragonknight had bore stains in his cloak too, but somehow, seeing blood stains on black was much more jarring.

“He did look at the sea more than anyone,” she mused.

“Didn’t he also speak of that blasted wedding, the one where the Stark boy was murdered? Or the failed attack of your father into King’s Landing?” The king pointed out.

“How did you die, Your Grace?” She asked, apropos of nothing, clearly catching Maegor off guard.

“I do not expect the tale of my death suitable for such young ears, my lady,” he stated, simply.

“I did not think the tale of your wives or the builders of the Red Keep were suitable for my ears either, and yet I prevailed with no nightmares, Your Grace.”

He sighed, and shook his head.

“And what do you intend to do with it, Lady Shireen?”

“Nothing. Keep it, perhaps.”

Maegor closed his eyes, then spoke.

“The Iron Throne is made of Valyrian Iron. It is merely common iron, that has been tempered with dragonfire. It is not as beautiful, nor as durable as Valyrian Steel, but it doesn’t have to be. All that matters is, it remains sharp, and incantations can be woven in it. I had not sat in the throne since my coronation, in which I wore blood red, for I knew the chair would cut me. Deep down, I knew my mother’s spells would deem me unworthy of my station, so I never sat upon it, until the day I killed myself.”

“How did you do it?”

“I sat on the stairs. The stairs are not enchanted, nor as sharp as the chair. It teased the spell, I knew, and the throne exacts a bloody ransom of whomever unworthy sits upon it. I haven’t paid my dues in six years. I knew the moment I sat upon it, it would slice me open.”

“Why did you do it?”

“I poisoned my father my father for a dragon I didn’t deserve, childishly kept my mother from helping my older brother as a man grown for a crown I hadn’t wanted, besmirched my mother’s name even at the time with my decisions, killed my nephews, wives and raped them on top of it all. The kingdom was against me, rallying behind my nephew Jaehaerys. As much bloodshed as I caused, I knew that if Jaehaerys got to the Red Keep and I was still alive, I would cause my remaining nephew to carry the weight of sentencing his own blood to die as an usurper. I could not bring his father or brother back, but I could preserve whatever was left of his innocence that way.”

“It was noble of you,” Shireen said.

“It was craven of me,” Maegor snorted, derisive.

“Not all noble acts needs to be brave, Your Grace. But for what it counts, Lord Commander Snow told me once that you can only be brave when you’re afraid.” She paused, then smiled at the wildflowers growing randomly in the garden. “In the end, you wanted the best for your family, isn’t that what counts?”

She never saw Maegor’s lone tear, nor his ghost dissipate.


	20. Jon Snow, Elia Martell; baby crush

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt: https://valar-morekinks.livejournal.com/6487.html?thread=2884695#t2884695
> 
> summary: little Aems copies his dad a tad better than his dad could, and elia is utterly amused.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i messed a bit with the age range, bc 'infatuation with mom' is a VERY COMMON THING for kids 6 and under, give or take a few year in special cases. hell, my son is 3 and he only kisses his dad when i'm not looking bc it might send me the message he doesn't like me more than dad does. so yeah, i fiddled with those a bit
> 
> this can also be read as a spiritual predecessor to chapter 9. hell ye.

Rhaegar’s little bastard by Lyanna Stark had a crush on Elia.

She knew she shouldn’t find this so amusing, but it’s hard not to find it such when said four year old gives her a bouquet of flowers as big as himself and declares for all to hear that ‘Queen Eli is the prettiest girl ever’, in the middle of a busy courtyard.

“Well, thank you, Prince Aemon,” she said, doing a quick curtsy and picking up the flowers. The little boy turned as red as the leaves of a weirwood, bowed clumsily as befitting his age, and ran off to Ser Jaime, who looked to be fighting tears of laughter.

Her husband was less amused.

“We shouldn’t encourage this, Elia,” he grumbled one night, as she brushed her hair before plaiting it for the night.

“It is but a childish thing, Rhaegar,” she pointed out. “He sees his father kissing his wife, he imitates. It’s a game to him, a little competition for attention.”

She knew that between Rhaenys, Aegon and Rhaegar, she felt guilty of not remembering to pay the little child much attention. Rhaenys didn’t care for a younger brother, especially one that she could still remember was at the center of the most terrifying days of her nine years of age. Aegon went where Rhaenys did. That left little Aemon with very little choice in playmates, so he played with the children of courtiers that didn’t shun him and the servant’s sons and daughters. When the noble children saw that the Prince of Dragonstone and the Princess didn’t play with their bastard brother, that left Aemon playing with only the servant’s children and his Kingsguard, usually Ser Barristan or Ser Jaime.

“Just today, dear, I heard Lady Tyrell saying that, with your youngest in court, maybe your mother was right in staying on Dragonstone.”

Rhaegar’s mood went from brooding to simmering.

“Is this what the court is whispering, lady wife?” he asked, anger barely contained in his voice.

“Indeed. They also seem to be implying a child of four is plotting against the king. You northerners are such odd things. At four he can’t even wipe his bottom by himself, let alone plot a revolution,” she said, with humor.

The next day, Elia tried to get her son to play with his brother.

“I don’t want to.” Aegon said, stubbornly.

“Dear, he is your brother. I understand if Rhae doesn’t want to play with Aems, she’s a Princess and Princess play with Ladies, but you are both Princes,” she explained, calmly.

“I don’t want to play with Aems! He’s weird! And Rhae’s upset with him because Balerion likes him!” Aegon protested, crossing his arms in childish petulancy. “Plus, Lady Cersei said that because he’s a bastard, he’s going to steal you, and then father, and then he’s going to be mean to us!”

Elia sighed.

“Aegon. You’re a Targaryen and a Martell. You’re as much Dornish as me, and a Dragon besides. Aemon is a Dragon too, and a Direwolf. Do you know that wolves never betray their families?”

Aegon huffed.

“He knocked me off my feet playing swords. Lady Cersei said that  _ that _ really means he doesn’t like me!”

“Or, that he’s gonna be your Kingsguard, like Aemon the Dragonknight was to King Aegon. Now, do you want to be like the first or fourth Aegon?” She asked, sternly. “Aems is a good kid, and will be a good little brother if you let him, Egg.”

Aemon tried not to ambush Elia in the middle of a full court, but when the little boy excitedly made Ser Jaime run with him on his shoulders, to present her with a drawing he did for her, the bored nobles had trailed behind them anyway.

“Today we learned sigils!” He told her happily from over Ser Jaime’s head. “And the maester said our sigil is the dragon, so here is Papa, Rhae, Egg and I. Papa is the red one, Rhae is the orange, Egg is the purple and I’m the grey one. And House Martell’s sigil is a sun, so the sun here is Elia, because Elia likes us a lot like the sun likes us!”

It was the most charming thing she’s ever heard from a four year old, she admitted to herself. Aemon, when grown, would be a menace to any maiden’s heart. But Elia wasn’t a maiden, but his stepmother, and so the gesture only made her smile, fondness growing.

“This is a beautiful drawing, sweetling. I’ll hang it with all of Egg’s and Rhae’s, it’s how much it means to me. Ser Jaime, please bend over, I have a gift for the little Prince.”

When Aemon’s face was within reach, she kissed his cheek gently.

Aemon blushed again, but since he was riding on Ser Jaime’s shoulders, couldn’t run like last time, so he muttered a ‘Thank you, Elia’ before pulling on the Kingsguard’s hair, and making the laughing knight run the same way they came.

By the time Aemon was 7, he had filled Elia’s desk with meaningful and useful little gifts. A metal quill point in brass that glinted orange, an animal shaped paper weight he whittled himself (and had the cuts on his little fingers to prove, all bandaged, but he was proud of them all), a more skilled version of the sun and dragons he had made when he was four, and a beautiful planter of mint and lavender he commissioned in the city when she took ill midwinter.

“The maester said that if you crush the leaves on your hands, the smell can soothe the coughs,” he explained, ‘helping’ Uncle Lewyn put the plants on her bedside table.

Aegon was properly miffed that Aemon had thought of it before him.

“You’re my mother, and sometimes it feels as if he cares more for you than I do,” he grumbled, moodily, in a way that reminded her of his father.

“He does,” she said, softly, and Aegon looked at her, offended. “Do not look at your mother like that, young man. Aemon is an orphan, remember? He’s lost his mother before he could meet her. He was raised for a while in the North by his Uncle and an Aunt who was, by all accounts, terrible to him just because he is what he is. He does care more for me than you, but that is because he is afraid I’ll leave him too, like his mother.”

“But… Father’s Lyanna didn’t leave Aems, she died…” Aegon countered, weakly, but chastised.

“Yes. But Aems was but a babe then. His Aunt was barely more than a girl herself, and still fancied herself in love with the uncle Aems will never meet. She saw Aems and in him she thought he saw the reason Brandon Stark died.”

“But how could Aems-- he’s younger than me! Is that why you don’t mind when Aems gives you gifts like father does?”

Elia nodded, smiling at her son.

“He’s just being a child. He fancies himself in love with me, because that’s what your father are. He’s much like you in that respect, Egg,” she teased, flicking Aegon’s nose, who protested at the childish treatment. “Remember when you stole your father’s crown to play knights with the other boys, because you wanted to be your father at the Battle of the Trident?” Aegon blushed horribly, but nodded. “He just wants to be loved, Egg.”

A few months later, the trickle of gifts Aemon would leave her slowed down, until just before the boy’s ninth year, they stopped. He had finally outgrown his infatuation with her, and while she was happy little Aemon had moved on, sometimes she would look over her shoulder when the door creaked, expecting her excitable step-son to come in and hand her a beautiful flower or bring her some tea with honey and sweet cakes he picked himself for her.

She looked out of the window of her embroidery circle, and saw Aemon hiding behind a column, a wrapped up dagger in his hand, looking at his brother with almost the same look in his face he had when he looked at her and understood. She sighed, shaking her head in some mixture of exasperation and worry. He had moved on like only a Targaryen would.


	21. Olenna Tyrell, Daeron Targaryen; remembrance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt: https://valar-morekinks.livejournal.com/6487.html?thread=2909271#t2909271
> 
> summary: a monologue to the dead

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> surprise bitch u thought u seen the last of me
> 
> this is it im done for today, have olenna tyrell being soft for the prince she might've married if he wasn't so deadset in not cheating on his boyfriend

“I did not begrudge you for what you’ve done, you know,” Lady Olenna told the urn of ashes of what once was her betrothed, Prince Daeron. “It was stupidly noble of you, to not want to marry a girl for fear of disappointing her.”

She took in a breath. Old age did not favor her as it did fools like the Old Falcon. The crypts of the Sept of Baelor were cold and damp, and her joints ached with every second she stood there, paying her respects.

“I would’ve still done it. I would’ve married you. Not because I was a greedy, grasping thing, mind you. And not because you were some beautiful, otherworldly being who had maidens swooning left and right. You might tell me,’ but they were, Olenna’, but you’re wrong. Jaehaerys was always by your side, and he, truly, was the handsome brother. You, on the other hand, had the Blackwood face, which looks… rather like a drowned white crow with the silver locks of your father,” she laughed.

“No, I would’ve still married you because of you. It’s been almost fifty years and I still remember you as the foolish little boy who jumped off a tree into the Mander when we were kids, and splashed everyone on sight.” She sighed. “You were so charming when you wanted to, too, and I liked so much that you called me Lady Lena. It’s silly that you thought I didn’t notice nor saw you and Jeremy playing at kisses like maidens. As men, you never learned how to be quiet; I think the entirety of Highgarden heard it when you lost your maidenhead, you silly man.” She was smiling again, fighting tears. The Queen of Thorns did not cry, much less for the past.

“And despite knowing that you were in love with Jeremy, I would still marry you. I could’ve been a good wife to you. The kind that would pretend not to notice that your sworn sword was swearing his sword to you every other night in your chambers after you gave me a child. But no, you had to be so stupidly noble and honorable. Couldn’t you have just accepted my offer, you stupid, dead oaf?”

A lone tear from all the others she was fighting managed to slip, falling on the floor. It joined many other ones she’s shed in this same spot over the course of years.

“Instead, you went and broke our betrothal, then got yourself and Jeremy killed, and doomed me to marry Luthor. He wasn’t a bad husband, but Gods old and new, he was just as much an oaf as his son. People blame me that he rode off a cliff, people not even once glance at his grasping gooddaughter. All Hightowers are grasping to a fault, you know that. The only saving grace of Alerie’s is the grandchildren she gave me. You would’ve doted without end on Loras, I’m sure of that. You two are much alike in some regards, foolish sword handlers.” She let out a watery chuckle. “I wish you were still here to smile that stupid grin of yours and offer me a kerchief, right now. If there was a thing I miss about you the most, it was how you’d smile at the silliest of things.”

Olenna wiped the tears that insisted on falling on the sleeve of her dress, and put a wrinkled old hand on the pedestal of the urn of her beloved prince.

“If I have one regret, it was not working harder to convince you you could not slight me for loving Jeremy. I have no doubt you would still go and get yourself killed ending that rebellion, you always were too good like that. But if the gods would’ve been good, the world would have a piece of you to remember you by, Daeron.”


	22. TFLN 2: ELECTRIC BOOGALOO

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompts: https://valar-morekinks.livejournal.com/6487.html?thread=2980183#t2980183  
> https://valar-morekinks.livejournal.com/6487.html?thread=2980439#t2980439  
> https://valar-morekinks.livejournal.com/6487.html?thread=2980695#t2980695
> 
> summary: robert wanted to get married. hilarity ensued.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look these three sound like a whole chatfic fight me  
> they were like that. on top of each other. looking like a wholeass crackfic
> 
> pls fucking _ENJOY_ my dudes
> 
> >> is sent messages  
> << is received messages.

**> >> Message Log to [Stannis]**

>> I’m going to kill Robert

<< Please, refrain. It was hard enough convincing him to marry at all, let alone one of the thousands of women he has gotten pregnant over the past ten years, since Lyanna decided she’d rather be known as our cousin’s slut than marry him.

>> Are you drunk already, u and i know fairly well he hasn’t fucked thousands.

<< Neither here nor there, little brother. But what did Robert do to deserve to die?

>> Who’s going to be his best man, again?

>> Rhethorical question ofc it’s Ned

>> So Robert asks, “Renly, ur the only brother i can count on that has any sense of good taste. Plan my bachelors party?”

>> And i’m okay, let’s do it, thinking he’s gonna choose me as his best man

>> He chose ned fucking stark

>> And now

>> Now im a gay man planning my brothers bachelor party, and he choose someone else to be his best man

>> I hope they like appletinis and gay clubs

>> Bastard.

<< That’s petty, even for you, Renly. I sense someone else’s hand at work, along with yours. Did Loras help you come up with it?

>> Surprisingly, no. I mentioned it to Ned and he told me his wife would be terribly upset if he had gone to a strip club with women, a not totally unfounded fear given that he is as straight as you are a stick in the mud

<< I’ll take that as a compliment.

>> So yea the idea came from Ned Stark the man of honor himself, isn’t that a marvel in and of itself, the man has even told me that should the night go swell he might ask me to do the same for brandon’s wedding, which

>> Can you imagine Brandon Stark in a gay club? Bc i can’t but i’m dying to find out

<< That is… more chilling and ominous than anything you’ve informed me of tonight, Renly.

 

**> >> Message Log to [Me, My Wife and Her Girlfriend]**

>> [Image Sent: a scantily clad male stripper holding himself upside down on a pole with his legs on a split in the background, an appletini with a cherry held in Rhaegar’s hand on the foreground]

<< Elia: Babe what

<< Lyanna: Aw not without us what happened

>> Robert chose your brother Ned as man of honor, but asked Renly to plan his bachelor night.

<< Elia: _Good for him_

<< Elia: Renly, I mean, I’d wager Robert is having the night of his nightmares

<< Lyanna: Texted ned abt it and he said it was his idea i anxiously await the resolution in front of a heart tree

<< Lyanna: Ash must be thrilled

<< Elia: It is nice to know why my friend has been laughing uncontrollably every time she gets a text, though.

>> How is Marena, anyways? Is the hen party holding strong?

<< Lyanna: Cersei finally left, so the party is just starting really

<< Lyanna: The hired babysitters finally arrived, too, so were really just leaving

<< Lyanna: Marena is fretting a little about leaving little Gendry with Rhae, Egg and Aems for so long on someone else’s dragons, but Elia is taking care of it

>> Talking of dragons, I have to stop envisioning penises as dragons, I almost told Renly there was a guy across the bar eyeing him with his dragon roaring and ready to spill fire.

<< Elia: I get back on an auspicious time, I see

<< Elia: And you really should, babe. I love you, but your lame dragon dick jokes get really old really fast.

<< Lyanna: YeAH, pls stop. If i wanted to fuck an actual dragon, there’s a dildo company for that.

<< Lyanna: Bad Dragon even used the historical recreation of your family’s dragons for their research.

<< Elia: There has never been a more frightening set of words I’ve ever seen, Lya, please stop giving Rhaegar _ideas_

>> I _haven’t_ been getting ideas, but now that you mention, Elia, there’s a dragon’s head peeking up with interest, and that’s unfortunate given the setting I’m in

<< Lyanna: g ODS RHAEGAR

<< Elia: She’s laughing herself stupid and there is no way I’m explaining this to the others.

 

**> >> Message Log to [Backstabbing cousin]**

>> I need a ride home, now.

<< Whyever would you leave your own party, cousin dearest. I, for one, am having the time of my life.

>> Rhaegar, it’s the least you can do, considering you’ve stabbed me in the back.

<< Whatever could you mean, when Elia called you unfit to lick her boots or when Lya straight up told you she’d rather be known around as my side woman than date you for a single second? I recall them both wielding the knives each time.

>> I’m at your car, fucker, just fucking give me a lift, you’re the only one sober enough.

<< Fool that you are, I just pretend better, but yes, I am still sober enough to drive.

<< I’m not going out just yet, watching Renly, Loras and Oberyn is much more interesting than a 20 minute drive in awkward silence. Plus, it is your party, Renly organized it for you, even though you haven’t made him your best man, be thankful, cuz.

>> I’d call a taxi, but you have my keys.

>> Just drive me home, Rhaegar, for fuck’s sake, you can even listen to your shitty Essossi pop songs.

<< No.

>> I am literally at your car. The valet has given me the keys to it.

<< Well. I have your keys. You have my car. Looks like we have a drunkxican standoff.

>> I regret the day I showed you that fantasy series.

<< They’re actually a series of books! They’re kinda fantastic, this George Martin man and his Earth world. Fantastic.

>> Are you driving me home or not?

<< Ugh, fine. As soon as Loras manages to put the damn bill into that man’s thong. This is truly very entertaining.

>> Rhaegar ffs


	23. Aegon I/Fem!Torrhen Stark; odd people odd words

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: https://valar-morekinks.livejournal.com/6487.html?thread=3045719#t3045719
> 
> summary: the north is a barbaric place with barbaric laws, and the sight of its strength knocks the air out of Aegon's lungs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since we AU, let’s go full throttle AU.

The former Queen Thorra Stark confounded him.

He had seen the might of the North. The giant ice spiders, the Singers, the Giants, and more First Men than one would’ve thought existed in the rumored icy wasteland that supposedly existed north of the Neck. All of these beings, sat in peaceful coexistence with the leadership of a Queen at the other bank of the Trident. Queen Thorra was in full mail and armor, a practical, polished steel affair that had scrollwork that his sister Visenya was practically drooling over.

“Can’t you feel, dear brother? The magic rolling off it. There’s more magic in that Queen’s armor than anywhere else in the mainlands we’ve conquered,” she had said, with an impressed respect at the other warrior queen.

It also unnerved him. He  _ could _ feel the magic, felt Balerion’s discomfort at it, and everytime a breeze flew from the north, they could smell it. It unnerved the men, too, how they felt the summer sun on their armor, but the smell froze them to the core.

A stupidly brave wolf decided to bite at the very end of Balerion’s tail, attacking it ferociously and chewing on it as if it was a pup. He’d have dismissed it as just the act of one oblivious animal, had he not heard a clang of a whole rider in armor being kicked off a horse, and the Northern Queen’s outraged “Brandon!” echoing, as the wolf seemed to return to its wits, and a loud laugh rang from across the river.

“Apparently they have people with the magic to control animals,” he told Visenya later. “It worries me.”

“It worries me too, but if they could take control of a dragon as easily as that wolf, they would’ve done it already. They either cannot, or they have some code as to what they can and can’t control. We shall find out sooner, rather than later, I’d hope.”

That night, they had fallen asleep to a strange lull in the air. Or rather, most had rolled in their bedrolls, inquieted by what they thought they heard in the winds, on the ground and in the passage of water.

The morning had brought the dawning realization that, had the Northern Army wanted to murder them all, they could’ve. Overnight, the sound they heard was the Singers urging the trees around the Trident to bend and grow, creating a bridge wide enough for platoons to pass by comfortably. The only ones on it, though, were Queen Thorra, the knight she had kicked off his horse the day before, and a representative of each creature in her army. They held a truce flag.

“We should ride and meet them, my king,” Rhaenys said, peering over her brother’s and sister’s shoulders at the Northern party. “See what they want. Maybe they wish to surrender?” She said, too optimistic.

It was always a weird day when Rhaenys was right in matters of war.

“We are here to submit the North to you, King Aegon,” the Queen said, before any herald could announce their names and titles.

“You stand before King--”

“Oh, do shut up, you simpering southerner,” she growled, and the beast they thought was a horse, but only now realized was a giant wolf, growled at the herald too, who squeaked like a mouse and shrunk into himself. “Only fools are intimidated by titles and names.”

“Why do you surrender, Queen Thorra?” Visenya asks, bluntly but without the usual edge; clearly having found a kindred soul. “You must realize by now that you have the means to beat us.”

The Northern Queen gave them a wolfish smile, her grey-blue eyes the same shade of a glacier midsummer.

“It does look like it, doesn’t it? However, even magic has a limit. Any magic we could do to bring down your dragons would end up costing me my army, as they would still be left with enough life to crash upon the fray of battle and contort in their death throes. You are already bonded to them, and it is a crime to warg into another’s beast. I could easily beat your army, but it would come at a human cost I am uncomfortable paying.”

“And your companions? Do they share the same opinion?”

“I am Root, Greenseer of the Neck. I do not wish to see my home in flames. I do not wish to see my children slaughtered. I concur with the Stark,” the small Singer said, voice more like a suggestion on the wind.

“I am Magnar Koth, of the Giants. Do not wish to see my clan and others’ clans suffer. Agree with the Stark,” the giant, Koth, grumbled from the earth, or so it felt.

“I am Snowdrift, of the Lands of Always Winter. The price for bringing down a dragon would be lives of my people, in this blasted heat, where we would not be part of the Great Ice. I agree with the Stark,” the crystal creature said, voice like the crashing icebergs of the Shivering Sea.

“I am Brandon Snow, brother to the Queen and General to her troops. It was great fun bothering your dragon, but I do not expect my sister to see the death of nearly all her troops as a win. I follow my Queen’s wishes.”

“I am Queen Thorra Stark, of the blood of the Direwolves, the Singers, the Icemakers and the Mag Thenn, queen of the First Men and Runescribe, the Queen of Winter. I heretofore bequeath my titles to King Aegon Targaryen, First of His Name, Shield of His People, King of the Andals, Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm.” She kneeled, and her brother did the same. The Icemaker, the Singer and the Giant, however, stood, looking at the Valyrians with unreadable eyes. “Do not fret, King Aegon,” the former queen said, a smirk clear on her voice as she kept her head bent, so he could take her crown. “They bow before no one. Their people did not bow to my family either. They joined freely, by blood,” she added, ominously.

“I have said it to Lady Sharra Arryn, and I shall repeat it to you: I have no need of a third queen,” he said, adamantly.

“And I would not demand that of you. The First Ones do not put weight to human ceremonies, nor titles. You’d do well to remember they call people of my blood ‘the Starks’, not by any fancy human title. They conferred us respect by making us kin,” she said, more forcefully.

“So, you mean a child of Stark and Targaryen blood,” Queen Visenya said. “Interesting. Leverage of our blood against us, or…?”

“Words are wind,” Root said, and with her voice a mere suggestion in the air, it caused goosebumps to rise on the Targaryens and their entourage. “Blood, however, is solid. It grows. It binds magic, it undoes magic. Blood is the currency of the gods.”

“When blood mix, you become kin, and kin means something. Means survival,” Koth said. “Kin helps kin survive.”

“Words melt in the sun. Blood sinks in the ice and stays,” Snowdrift completed, eerily.

“We shall respect nothing more than our next ruler being the symbol of our truce. Unless you accept the pack, the pack won’t accept you,” Brandon Snow concluded. He leaned onto one of the bridge’s walls, using a dagger to pick dirt out of his wolf’s nails. “Our Way is the Old Way, King Aegon. The South may call us savages for it, but while they have squabbles about their petty borders, we have kept the North together as is for eight thousand years. Makes you think, doesn’t it,” he remarked, with some humor.

“The next king of Westeros will not be a bastard from the North,” Rhaenys said, almost childishly.

“And we are not demanding that. He meant the next ruler of the North,” the new Lady Paramount of the North said, looking crossly at her brother, who just shrugged.

“Until that kid is born, we’re not part of their Kingdom, and you know it, Dora.”

“That is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard,” Visenya huffed. “We are not whoring our husband for a kingdom. You will submit--”

“Or what?” Thorra looked at her, defiantly, from where she kneeled on the bridge. “You cannot take the North from me by feeding me to your dragons. You cannot take the North by fire, as you have done in the South, just as you have not been able to take Dorne. We were the First Men,” she declared, voice as cold as a winter, “and we shall be the last, too.”

“The Dornish words are Unbowed, Unbent, Unbroken. They will stand by those words, and nothing you can do will bow, bend or break them. Likewise, our words are Winter Is Coming. That, King Aegon, is a promise.” Brandon Snow’s eyes were an unnerving shade of pale gray, as if he had no iris, just a black pinprick where his pupil was. Right then, Aegon thought he understood why the Starks were called the Kings and Queens of Winter; they endured it because it was part of them, deep in their blood. “Ice may break and melt, but midwinter, you’re just getting one step closer to freezing.”

“You dare threaten your king?” A foolish or brave guard asked, and Brandon Snow snorted.

“He’s not our king until the  _ entire _ pact is sealed, you southern fool.”

Visenya seemed to understand the situation first.

“I see. This is not merely a custom. You’re asking us to be bound to you by blood and magic.” She pursed her lips. “That’s bold.”

“For you, perhaps. For us it’s a way of life. And you will never erase a people’s customs, because in the end, if you intend to rule, you need the people on your side, and by having taken your sisters to wives, you already have so much against you, both in the southern and our faiths. Much as you want to deny it, you have to appeal to seven different people at turns.” Queen Thorra said, standing back on her feet. “I understand not wanting to be unfaithful to your queens; I myself am loathe to feel as if I’m besmirching the memory of my late husband.” She shook her head. “Be as they were, our marriage vows, I still bore the icemakers a child to keep our pact with them. If you decide your family will rule six of the Seven Kingdoms by the time your life expires, you need but cross the bridge, Your Grace.”

As night fell, and his sisters were asleep, Aegon had made a decision, but woke only Visenya.

“It’s eating me inside, ‘Senya.”

“It bothers me, as well,’ Visenya said, somberly.

“I do not want to do it,” he said, pulling his eldest sister upon his lap, resting his forehead against her bosom. “And yet, they shall not bend the knee otherwise.”

“Queen Thorra is a woman of duty,” she nodded, wrapping her arms around his head and caressing his short tresses. “I do not understand what do they stand to gain. Her brother had said they would gain a new liege, and nothing else, but I cannot help but think there is more they want.”

“They are truly unlike any other ruling family in this land,” he said, feeling defeated despite the fact they haven’t lost. “If stories are to be believed, they are the oldest ruling line. Their founder built Storm’s End, the original Hightower, and their own seat of Winterfell. They have almost always ruled the vastest kingdom in Westeros. If that includes the Lands of Always Winter, their kingdom is vaster than we thought. They were always kings and queens, unlike the Durrandons and Baratheons, the Lannisters, the Tyrells and the Tullys. And here comes Queen Thorra Stark, and offers me her Crown of Winter and fealty of the human North in perpetuity, in exchange of a child. It should be a cheap price to pay, and my men would say I should be glad of the opportunity to lay with a willing woman that isn’t one of my wives, but I’m not. What does that make me?”

“A true man.”

“Not a dragon, that’s for sure,” he laughed, self-deprecating. “Father always praised me for being able to just take what I wanted, when I told him I would marry you  _ and _ Rhae, but I can’t even fuck a woman for the sake of my ambitions.”

He could hear Visenya rolling her eyes at him.

“There’s also hoping that, because we are so deeply rooted in fire magic, that your touch will burn her and hers you,” she said, with a levity he wasn’t expecting. “It is like she said, a duty. The love she’s putting in the act is for her people, not for you. I am willing to live with that.”

As the sun rose, there were but a handful of tents on the other side.

“I do not believe them foolish enough to have gone too far,” Edmyn Tully said. “This could be an ambush, Your Grace; it is the preferred method of the people of the Neck. The Singers and the Crannogmen aren’t physically strong, but they are cunning.”

“You stay here with the troops, Lord Tully,” Aegon commanded. “Visenya, with me, and Lord Tully?” The man stood to attention. “Tell Queen Rhaenys to take Meraxes and survey the area from the skies.”

“Yes, Your Grace,” Lord Tully bowed.

“Rhaenys won’t like this,” Visenya said, amused, fixing Dark Sister on her belt.

“Rhaenys doesn’t have to like this. I’m not liking this either,” he groused, moodily.

“You’re doing it for the realm and your dream,” Visenya stated, understanding.

“I am doing it for the realm,” he confirmed, brooding.

They crossed the bridge, and from the treetops at both ends, they could feel the stares of beings still there. A white crow landed on a branch, and made eye contact with Aegon. He felt as if the animal was weighing his worth, and found him lacking in every way.

The huge direwolf that was the queen’s mount rose from its slumber next to the direwolf they presumed was Brandon Snow’s. It rose up, stretching lazily, and walked to them, paused in front of Aegon, then turned its back to sit at the entrance of a tent. It pointed with its head, impatiently.

“I believe that’s where I leave you, husband.” Visenya gripped the hilt of her sword, nervous.

Aegon nodded, and with one last look at the direwolf’s eerie golden eyes, he entered Queen Thorra’s tent.

It was colder than he thought, inside. The fabric of the flap was cold too, but the woman inside seemed not to care.

Her dress looked as if made of fresh snowfall, and was in a cut he has never seen before. She sat on a cot, a table with two goblets awaiting.

“So, you came,” she said, in the tone of someone who is not surprised.

“So I have,” he replied, steeling himself.

“Sit here,” she ordered, and it was an order, he had no doubt of it. He obeyed nonetheless. “Drink this.”

“What is this?” He asked, suspicious.

“It is only something to help along,” she said. “I doubt any of us would want to try this more than the once.” The queen laughed, shaking her head. “I for one, would rather not even speak of it afterwards.”

Her words were a relief to him. They were both victims of customs older than themselves, it seemed, and as their willingness was dubious at best, he truly wished he’d never need to do this again. He downed his cup. It tasted much like water, but different.

“I’d rather no other kingdom hears of this, my lady,” he groaned, burying his head into his hands after she took his empty goblet. “I’ve enough portraits to be burned in the Aegonfort as is.”

“Your Grace is not the type of man I would’ve chosen, either, even had I not chosen to not take another husband in respect of my late King Theon.” Aegon looked at her, confused. “You’re much too  _ slender _ , Your Grace. You look like you cannot even carry a boulder from one side of the yard to the other.”

Aegon’s indignation faded into a warm feeling and a grudging respect.

“If that’s your standard, so yes, I sound rather girly. But I wasn’t built for that, I was built to ride dragons, my lady,” he said, recognizing the telltale signs of being drugged, but not feeling sluggish at all, nor feeling like a man losing his wits.

“I should be glad to ride a dragon right now,” Lady Thorra Stark said, and the king realized belatedly the liquid they drank was an aphrodisiac.

Her dress slid down her shoulders, and so did most of Aegon’s faculties.

 

He walked out the tent more brooding than he went in.

“No,” he said, when Visenya rose from the rock she found to sit. “I do not wish to talk about it. Not now nor ever.”

“Was it so bad?”

“None of us were happy then, none of us are happy now, but it is done.”

Visenya looked to the sky, where she could see the tiny form of Meraxes and Rhaenys in the air.

“So they do use some form of magic to aid conception. Did Lady Stark mention where will this child be raised?”

Aegon looked at his sister-wife, tiredly.

“He’s to be the new Warden of the North, when Lady Stark passes, so the North. You and Rhae shall never see the child unless you visit north.”

“Did she tell you anything else?”

Aegon felt and looked haunted.

“She told me tradition is what kept the North in peace, whether they liked it or not, and to think on that. And that the North remembers, even when my line won’t.”

“Hm. I truly wonder what she meant by it,” Visenya mumbled, frowning.


	24. Sansa/Domeric; right of first night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt: https://valar-morekinks.livejournal.com/5563.html?thread=2300347#t2300347
> 
> summary: Spiritual prequel to chapter one ahoy, sansa seduces the heir to the dreadfort

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a tiny thing to tide yall's over, it's 2AM here and yesterday was *wild*, probably back to some semblance of schedule when i wake up hells yea

“I’ll be honest, my lady, it is not that I haven’t enjoyed this but--”

Sansa turned in the bed, from where they were blissfully cuddling. Leaning on an elbow, the furs slid off her slender figure, exposing her chest a little, and she enjoyed greatly seeing Domeric’s eyes flit between her eyes and her bosom.

“Nothing that comes before a but is any truth, Dom, but please, finish that.”

“We shouldn’t have done this. It is improper, and with our families histories, we should’ve been more restrained…” He said letting out a shaky breath.

“Domeric…”

“I am a  _ knight _ , Sansa, I took vows of chivalry,” he whispered, frantically, laying on his back and putting his hands on his face. “I have sworn to protect maidens, and here I am, dishonoring you and our houses and your father’s trust--”

“Domeric.”

“I’m sure that just to spite me for spitting on the vows I’ve  _ just _ taken the gods won’t allow our betrothal to go through, and perhaps it’s good, because if someone catches us it forces the marriage anyways--”

“Domeric!” She whisper-shouted, frowning, and he finally looked at her, even if his eyes took a little longer to reach hers.

“The ink is dry. Stop fretting. It is as you say, either they betroth us, or I  _ will _ find a way to have a servant find us and force Father’s hand. Does it matter to you to take your wife’s maidenhead after or before the wedding if that’s how it’ll be?”

“I have not taken your maidenhead, that was your princely cousin,” Domeric said, crossly.

“There you have it, you didn’t even dishonor me. Plus, I was fostered in  _ Dorne _ , I thought at the time I would be wed to a dornish lord, and they do not care about maidenheads there.” She brushed a lock of brown hair from Domeric’s face, then kissed his brow, relishing a little that the movement pushed her breasts into his face. Sansa argued with herself he cannot fret while fighting the urge to kiss her body. She was right.

“This is… one way to reassure a man…” he mumbled, daintily putting a hand around her waist.

“Hmm… A thing Lady Ashara taught me, was that it’s better to lose it to someone you trust than in your marriage bed, because you can never know if that man will be someone you can trust. I am not regretful that I did, either, and you, Ser Domeric, should not be put out by it, too, because you are going to be reaping the benefits, you know?” Sansa said, playfully, shimmying down to be face to face with her beloved.

“How so?” Domeric asked, suspicious, but pulled her closer, and allowed her to capture one of his legs between hers.

“Oh, I don’t know, my good ser, you seem awfully uptight for someone sharing a bed with a willing lady,” she japed.

“I do not wish to hear of… escapades of my future wife and her cousin, the Prince of Summerhall,” he stated, bluntly and crossly, in the same tone  _ her father _ used to chastise her.

“It was less of a telling,” she started, then snaked one small hand down his chest, past his muscled abdomen, and paused, hovering, “and more of a… showing,” she drawled, grasping his half-hard cock in her hand and leaving featherlight caresses on a spot under the head that made him bite his pillow so as not to moan embarrassingly loud in surprise.

“Oh, this was embarrassing,” Domeric managed a laugh, but he was breathing awfully fast and holding her ridiculously tight. “I have lived with this cock for nineteen years and I did not know of that.”

“Mmm, somehow, I do not believe that,” she teased, rubbing her finger over the head, pressing onto the slit and then sliding back down into that spot that had Domeric kissing her to avoid making those embarrassing noises.

“On my honor as a knight, my lady,” he swore, all seriousness until a light stroke had him rolling his eyes back. “I have not seen much use for carnal gratifications until you ‘accidentally’ sat on my lap, Lady Sansa.” She had a feeling he might be chastising her a little, but it did not matter as his mouth made its way to her neck.

“Oh my, Lord Domeric, did you come to me a maid? Did I  _ dishonor you _ ?” she said in a mock-horror, using her other hand to guide Domeric’s to her folds, which were still wet and slick and a bit sticky from his seed. He moved his fingers carefully, almost reverently, and despite his clumsiness, he had promise. She would teach him.

“Mm, yes, I did.  _ What a scandal _ , Lady Sansa. To think the Dornish corrupted so a daughter of House Stark that she’s going around, deflowering the heir of their former bitter rivals…” He whispered, finally comfortable, or just too aroused to care again.

“Just watch me, then, Lord Bolton,” she said, flipping him on his back and climbing on top of him, “by the time I let you leave, you won’t be just deflowered, you’ll be downright  _ debauched _ .”


	25. Jon Snow/Satin; northern braggings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt: https://valar-morekinks.livejournal.com/4880.html?thread=2139664#t2139664
> 
> summary: satin hears that northern men have more stamina than southern men. he decides to check that one out for himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *hanglooses at yall* got guilted into platinuming a witcher tale: thronebreaker, pls accept this humble offering.

Satin was tired.

Not of his whole arrangement with his Lord Commander (or former Lord Commander, even though none of them stopped putting their trust in Jon), nor  _ of _ Jon, gods forbid.

But the man was still hard and willing after Satin had already spent himself three times, and this cannot be normal, right?

“You could lay down and I’d ride you?” Jon offered, hopeful

“Jon, I do not think I can physically will myself erect anymore,” he replied, putting an arm over his eyes, laying on Jon’s bed half-naked.

Jon snorted.

“Now I understand why Dacey was always teasing Robb about his Tully looks. You southerners can’t fuck worth shit.”

Satin almost sit up in indignation. As it was, he could barely rest on his forearms without feeling some pain.

“That wasn’t what you were saying an hour ago,” he accused.

“Hmm, one hour ago, I still believed that you could take a northern man,” the other teased, in that serious tone Satin had learned to associate with Jon’s and the North’s unique brand of sarcasm.

“I thought Grenn’s boast of going for hours was just a baseless gloating! I didn’t think there was some meat behind it!” He protested, almost getting up, but his lower back was absolutely going to complain about it.

“I’d pay you actual gold dragons to tell Grenn he has ‘some meat’ in his trousers,” Jon said, eyes glinting in the firelight with mischief written all over his face, laying his head on Satin’s chest.

“Oh, but then he would feel compelled to show everyone he has ‘lots of meat’ in his trousers, and no one wants that, really.”

“Tormund would find it funny,” Jon pointed out.

“Well, go fuck Tormund, then,” Satin replied, haughtily. “Maybe it takes a wildling to show you how I feel when you have to finish yourself off because of your stupid northern stamina.”

“Mm, didn’t peg you for the jealous type, Satin.” He could feel the smirk against his skin, and then Jon started to manhandle him onto his side, leaning over his prone body for the bottle of oil. “Maybe we should rectify that, huh? Plus, really? Tormund? He’s awfully old, don’t you think? One of his titles is Tall Talker, so you should take anything that comes out of his mouth with a pitcher of salt, Satin.”

Jon’s hand started rubbing the oil on Satin’s legs, and under his balls, and dangerously close to his abused hole.

“Jon, no, I told you, I don’t think I can get it up anymore, it’s gonna hurt…” Satin protested, weakly.

“Oh, don’t worry, sweetling, I’m not gonna put it in. Though I believe I told you before, I really like these thighs of yours,” Jon whispered in his ear, and Satin felt a smidge of arousal peek its head from beyond the grave.

“My, my, Jon Snow, what a considerate lover you are,” he purred, teasingly, relaxing into the other man’s hold and pushing his ass into Jon’s still hard member.

“Have to have learned a thing or two in all that time beyond the wall, didn’t I?” he said, fondly, nibbling on Satin’s neck. His cock twitched weakly when Jon stroked it like one would a skittish cat, and yes, it would seem he still had one more go in him.

“That means nothing, Jon, I’m far too sore and wish to walk with my own legs tomorrow,” he huffed in indignation.

“I’ll pretend to believe that,” Jon hummed, lifting Satin’s thigh a little to settle his cockin the oil-slick crevice between his thighs, right under his balls. It also rubbed past Satin’s sensitive hole, that twitched in time with another little twitch of Satin’s own cock. “Your pretty ass says otherwise, love.”

“If you think you’re gonna win me over with cutesy names,  _ Lord Snow _ ,” Satin started, and Jon started moving, slowly, hand flattening Satin’s limp manhood into his own, slowly, dragging them together.

“Mm? What did you say, my flower?”

“Oh, gods, that was terrible--” He started, choking his laughter with a moan at a much stronger thrust.

“Sweetcheeks,” Jon powered through, gaining speed as the seed dribbling down from his cock helped wet Satin’s thighs. Satin, in turn, tried not to laugh, and failed, the shaking of his chuckles goading Jon along. “Gods, Satin, now I know why that’s your name, your thighs are so soft,” he leaned into Satin, growling in his ear, “made for me to put my cock between and fuck them.”

“Hmm, did my thighs get Lord Snow to melt, did they,” Satin teased, light-heartedly. Jon huffed in response and nipped at his earlobe, wrapping around him like a living warm blanket, as tight as he could. It made thrusting complicated, but if Satin were to judge by the noises Jon was making, he was having the time of his life. “Oh, it almost makes me wish this was the brothel everyone thinks I lived at, so you could have my ass again.”

Jon let out a strangled moan that was borderline a howl. Meanwhile, outside, they heard a muted, silent, throaty howl that could only be Ghost.

“So that’s how much Lord Snow enjoys my thighs, huh? Enough to slip a little into Ghost to howl at your heart’s content?”

Satin was still a bit soft, but every time the heads of their cocks touched it was sweet agony. Jon threw a leg over his thighs, to force them tighter together, and it seemed to make his thrusts erratic, and Satin wondered if this was the end of Jon’s northern endurance.

“Hmm, will you spill all over my thighs, Jon?” Satin had to admit, the idea was  _ very _ appealing, but he  _ was _ getting excited, and so, deciding it was cold enough at the Wall to soothe his abused behind, he threw another offer. “Or, you could slip in and spill inside me. I did enjoy so much watching my cum spill from your ass, it’s only fair, don’t you think?”

Jon whined at the suggestion, and took no time manhandling Satin onto his belly, then pulling his ass up and spread. He felt the other painstakingly slowly push the head in, only to pull it out, push it in to push it out, and about an inordinate amount of torture, Satin got to the conclusion Jon was  _ enjoying _ toying with him.

“I thought you were going to-- Oof!” He tried to taunt, but Jon chose  _ then _ to slam his hip against Satin’s ass, fucking him like a man possessed, he started to think that maybe he misjudged how much Jon still had in him.

Satin went to touch his cock, and realized that it wasn’t hard, and likely wouldn’t be again just yet, with the weariness he felt, but it was dribbling his seed everywhere in the sheets, and he idly, almost hysterically thought that this shouldn’t be as arousing as it was. When his orgasm hit him again with no warning he could discern, he started finding it very hard to stay awake, and almost thanked every god he knew of that just about when his legs would give out, Jon spilled inside him, an almost embarrassing amount simply slipping out as his stretched out hole found it hard to keep it in.

“Satin?” He heard Jon call him, and he woke up, not realizing he had fallen asleep.

“Hmmm?” He rose his head from the pillow, blissed out in a way he didn’t know was possible.

“Oh, thank the gods, I thought I killed you with my northern bullshit,” Jon smiled, and Satin was so wore out, he couldn’t even muster raising his arm to slap him.

“Mark my words, Jon Snow, as soon as I’m not feeling like a piece of boiled fat, you’re going to get at least a punch for your troubles.”

Jon merely kissed his shoulder, and pulled up their furs in response.


	26. Ned/Cat; family, duty, honor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt: https://valar-morekinks.livejournal.com/8859.html?thread=3701147#t3701147
> 
> summary: cat is a smart woman and ned is not sure, in the middle of a sleepless night, if that's a good thing.  
> I don’t think jon being a targaryen would be a ‘great threat’ to robb as much as it would be a threat to the physical integrity of the family, but like. Cat’s words are literally ‘family, duty, honor’ in that order so like. Maybe?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if it sounds unfinished, it's bc i don't know how to properly finish it im sorry ;n;
> 
> accept this humble offering from someone who's dealing with a toddler on vacation from daycare and suffering from button-mashing tendinitis from platinuming a game, and from food poisoning and couldn't write as much this week as i wanted to <3

“You truly think me that stupid, Lord Stark?” Catelyn asked, acidly, a frozen smile on her face that would’ve made his Flint grandmother and his old gods proud.

“Uh. Excuse me?” He said, probably trying to sound the lord on three hours of sleep and no rest to be had since he left Dorne. Cat did not buy it.

“My uncle says that you had no bastard with you, nor a favoured mistress, or even mistress of any kind, until the end of the siege of Storm’s End, and then you vanish to Dorne for a fortnight and emerge from there with a suddenly acquired child, five men less, and your sister’s bones,” she pointed out, pulling Ser Brynden’s letters from the folds of her sleeping robes. She too was sleepless and tired, but Lord Eddard had suddenly taken on the look of a man who hasn’t slept in years. “The king and the realm at large might be stupid enough to fall for your little tale, but my uncle is friends with Lord Arryn. I know this child is not yours, Lord Stark.” Her tone was icy and demanded, ordered him to tell her the truth.

“It is true, Jon is not of my body. However, he is of my blood, and I beg of you to treat him decently.”

“I shall promise you nothing until I know whose child did you bring into our home, Lord Stark.” The way she threw around his new title was tiring and not conducive to a home, nor a happy marriage, and she knew and was using it as a weapon. She was sure that by now, he was wishing he married whatever other lady who wouldn’t be as keen as she.

“I need you to, Lady wife,” he said, and she took a surprised breath in.  _ It seems the Quiet Wolf still has sharp claws. _ “It’s a matter of treason, and I cannot in good faith tell you unless I am sure you will keep that secret.”

“My family words’ are  _ Family, Duty, Honor _ , in that order, Lord husband,” she retorted icily. “You are now my family, and family matters come before any matter of duty and honor. So tell me, Lord Eddard, whose child is this.”

Her Lord Husband took a deep breath, as if steeling himself for what she’s forcing him to say.

“I was only trying to protect you, by not telling you of Aemon’s real name and parents,” he started, and Catelyn’s heart stopped.  _ Aemon? _ “Lyanna made me promise to take care of him. You didn’t see Robert’s face when he stepped over his older siblings’ mangled corpses in the Red Keep, my lady. That was not the man I knew, calling two innocent children ‘dragonspawn’, and delighting in the death of one of the gentlest people on any realm, Princess Elia. He would murder my nephew right there and then had he known, claiming that he was the product of rape, dragonspawn and the murderer of my sister.” Lord Eddard stopped, catching his breath. He was shaking, and she was sure she was as well. Catelyn looked at the baby in Lord Stark’s arms, his tuft of wild curly black hair, and still noticeably, painfully  _ purple _ little smart eyes. “I couldn’t bear another war, especially not one against my friend, so I lied.”

She was silent for a while, watching as the boy, too small and fragile-looking for a babe of six moons, played with the threads of his swaddlings.

“And King Robert was so delighted to see his foster brother’s honor take a hit, so used to being surrounded by men who acted the same as him, that he did not question it,” she said, finally, reaching a finger for baby Aemon, who grasped it with a too-weak grip. “He’s so fragile,” she whispered.

“The nursemaid said he was born too early. He nearly died on our way north,” Lord Eddard said, sad and regretful. “I should’ve waited until he was strong enough to travel all the way back in Dorne, but I was just… so wary of everything.”

“You couldn’t risk anyone thinking too hard about your story,” she added.

“I am sure that the lords of the Narrow Sea have a suspicion. I did not want to stay too long, especially since Aemon had already opened his eyes, and have someone reach the truth.”

“You could’ve lost him on the road… Is that why Maester Luwin is now the Maester of Winterfell instead of Maester Walys?”

“Yes. When I stopped in Starfall to deliver Dawn back to the Daynes along with Ser Arthur’s bones, I asked them to message Oldtown, to send me a maester at the Palestone Sword, and to order Walys back to the Citadel. I could not say that I wouldn’t murder the old bat when I came back for putting the ideas he did into my father’s head.”

Catelyn was silent for a long time, her son sleeping peacefully in his crib, and her nephew drifting off in her husband’s arms, holding her finger with a soft grasp, then sleepily bringing it to his mouth, chewing on it, as if teething.

“He’s a bit younger than Robb, but his teeth are already coming in. It’s why he’s not sleeping well,” she said, trying to shift the mood from the heavy air of treason.

“Our son is younger than little Aemon, my lady. Being born early and sickly did the poor child no favors. Aemon is truly eight moons old.”

“It concerns me he is so far behind, then. He should be sitting down…” she started, but a sudden voice to her right in the nursery interrupted her.

“His cover o’ bein’ a bastard hid that from yer eyes m’lady,” Wylla, Aemon’s wetnurse, said, walking in for his midnight feed. “When ye didn’t figure it out, ye didn’t want anythin’ to do with lil’ Aemon. Ye wouldn’t notice the lil’ prince was sittin’ on ‘is own already, ‘specially when lil’ lord Robb cried.”

Lord Eddard was looking tired, more tired than he has ever looked until then, when she turned around, anger clear in her eyes.

“Even the nursemaid knows! The nursemaid knew before your wife!”

“Peace, Cat--”

“None of that, Lord Husband! You would tell anyone but me? Were you planning on doing the same for the poor prince?”

“M’lady, I was  _ ther’, _ ” the maid said. “I lost my babe to a fever, and Lady Ashara ‘ired me to feed ‘er lil’ Eddara,” she continued, and now Lord Eddard looked guilty under Cat’s stare, “but the lil’ girl was born too early. Barely seven moons born, m’lady was too stressed the whole, we kept tellin’ ‘er ‘tis nothin’, m’lady. When lil’ Dara pass’d, Lady Ashara sent me to this tow’r, by the Pass, gave me a lett’r to ‘er broth’r Ser Arthur. Should’ve nev’r told Princess Lyanna lil’ Dara was dead, she wasn’t at the right moon too. ‘S why I don’t take coin from yer ‘usband, m’lady. Caus’d that, I did.”

“We’ve been over this, Wylla, it wasn’t your fault. I asked the midwife if there was any way to have prevented what happened, and she told me Lya was already giving signs days before you arrived,” her husband said, still with the little baby Aemon on his lap.

“Eddara?” Catelyn asked, honing in on her husband, angrily.

“She died age one of a fever. Eddara Sand, if you must know,” Lord Eddard said, with a deep grief in his heart that seemed to emanate in a self-loathing aura. Catelyn felt guilty about asking. “I have never dishonored you, and never will, my lady.”


	27. Aegon VI/Jon Snow; small town wonder

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt: https://valar-morekinks.livejournal.com/4880.html?thread=2166544#t2166544
> 
> summary: jon/egg, n+a=j, b+c=r,s,a,b,r, i’m taking some liberties with post-grad vet school, a lot of those as i’m but an ~art school dropout~~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im in a lot of pain, sorry that these will come more spaced and somewhat less inspired than the last 26 ones kajdfsdg  
>  we'll be back to our usual sub-par quality once i don't feel like the floor ppl tapdance on

Jon’s wolfdog seemed bent on not keeping itself healthy. As an albino and runt of the litter, Ghost had been prone to sickness. A skin dryness that turned into a week at the vet hospital here, his naturally red eyes hiding an eye infection there, and Ghost’s own propensity at running into the water headlong any time he saw the Torrentine and nearly drowning twice, had Jon at the end of his wits.

“Don’t be so cross with him, son,” his father said when Jon called him to help him take his currently  _ anaphylatic _ wolfdog to the vet hospital he usually took him for checkups and the occasional observation. “It’s mostly your fault for leaving those chocolates out.”

“I’ll be cross with him as long as it’s needed, I thought I taught him better than scrounge at the countertops,” he said, petting Ghost, trying to keep the dog calm so as not to let his airways close faster.

“He’s still a wild thing, being a half-wolf,” his father countered, “you cannot expect perfect behavior.”

“I’m not, I just expect him to wait patiently for his food for all of five seconds,” he rolled his eyes, and put a hand on Ghost’s brow.

They had called ahead already, so when his father pulled up at the clinic, there were already a small army of doctors, including one he has never met before.

“What is it, this time?” Doctor Allyria asked, tiredly. Jon could sympathize with his aunt; the day Ghost behaved was the day he died, most likely, and Jon dreaded that it was closer than he liked.

“He ate some chocolate I left on a counter while I was cutting up his auroch beef,” he said, in the same tone of his aunt’s.

“You can’t help but be a naughty boy, can you, my dearest great-nephew,” she cooed at the wolfdog, who whined mutely at her. “We’ll get you unchoked, then, you big baby. Egg, you come along, meet your new assignment.”

Jon was stunned as the new vet straightened up and ran to his aunt, as the nurses helped Jon and his father haul the mass of white fur and dead weight onto the stretcher Jon and his father had gifted the clinic after the third time they had to carry Ghost’s weight when still growing but very much the same weight as an adult man into the urgent care unit. He rushed after his dog, eyeing critically this newcomer who was supposed to be Ghost’s new veterinarian.

The guy looked to be his age, with long blond hair he had pulled into a messy bun under his hairnet, and light lilac eyes that didn’t look right for a Dayne, and by the way he almost cried when Aunt Allyria informed him that Ghost was so big because he was a high-content wolfdog, he had barely finished vet school.

Judging for the wink his aunt gave him while nodding in the new guy’s direction while he busied himself with preparing the sedatives for a dog the size of a particularly big pony, this was less Allyria putting Ghost in the best care available as she went North as a big races specialist (though Aunt Allyria would never leave Ghost in less than capable hands), and more with his aunt meddling with his love life  _ again. _ Jon tried not to groan too loudly.

“Shouldn’t he be out of the room?” The man, who her aunt had called ‘egg’ before, asked, quirking an eyebrow at Jon pulling up a borrowed scrub.

“If you want to control a scared, hurt half-wolf without any of its pack present, be my guest, Egg,” Allyria said, shrugging. “I mean, what’s an arm or a leg, really.”

“He usually goes for the neck,” Jon supplied, helpfully, and ‘egg’ blanched, and said nothing more on the matter.

“Oh, by the way, Jon,” his aunt started, and Jon felt his soul drop into a pit of despair as it lost grip on the hope that she wouldn’t try matchmaking when his dog’s life was at stake. “This is Aegon Targaryen, you know, like the fancypants family up in the Capitol. He’s just graduated college, and came to Starfall to train being a big animals vet. Isn’t that adorable?”

“Quite,” Jon droned, in a tone that hopefully conveyed to his aunt that  _ as they sedated his baby boy _ wasn’t quite the right hour for her schemes. “Though only in here we have only Ghost and horses, mostly. High Hermitage has more farms, and the Hellholt would be ideal if you were aiming at horse specialization.”

Aegon snorted from where he finished shaving a patch in Ghost’s fur to quickly jab in the access for fluids and sedative.

“As if an Uller would let any outsider touch their sand steeds like that. My aunt is an Uller,” he said at Jon’s and Allyria’s surprised faces, “and the first thing she told me after graduating was that I better not be hoping to work at her father’s stables.”

“Well, let’s hear it for the Ryswells, up North, and their seemingly endless gratitude at anyone who’s willing to go to their untractable cold to birth and geld their colts year-round.”

“Cheers,” Aegon said, raising the sedative-filled needle like a shot glass, then injecting into the access.

“Aegon, you better get to know Jon really well while I’m here still, Ghost is downright a pest when he picks up on any dislike from Jon towards the veterinarians.” Allyria said, casually, and Jon prayed to any god that would listen for the ground to open up and swallow him whole. He swore he would have words with his aunt; this was a nice joke three years ago, but now it was just mildly obnoxious.

“Isn’t he neutered? Shouldn’t he be calmer, then?”

“Oh, my sweet, summer child, you have much to learn about semi-wild animals still.”

“Also, you haven’t answered us about not going to High Hermitage instead,” Jon piped in, petting Ghost, who was still fighting to breathe.

“Gerold Dayne lives there, and he scares me,” Aegon answered, so earnestly it was all he could do to stifle a laugh, so he wouldn’t startle the wolfdog into fighting his sedatives.

“That’s fair,” Allyria said, nodding, jabbing quickly at Ghost’s jaw to test if the sedative was already in effect. She grabbed several wicked looking things that had Jon staring into Ghost’s fur intently; they looked like torture devices, and while he knew they were for Ghost’s wellbeing, they still looked like torture devices. “Though, Starfall isn’t a bit too urban for your goals?”

“I wanted to go to Bear Island, and Dacey Mormont had already sent me back a positive letter, but then my father heard of it, and straight up forbade me to go. Since until then I  _ was _ living on his dime, still kinda am, really, couldn’t really argue with where dad wanted to put his money,” he said, simply.

“Ah, the good old excuse of ‘the money is mine’, instead of telling you that you’d have to pass through Winterfell to get there, and if your dear ol’ dad was driving you, he’d had to see his ex, and her entire family, and an entire city’s worth of family friends and farmhands,” she nodded, sagely.

“Wait, you’re Auntie Elia’s kid?” Jon cut in, surprised, and thankfully Ghost didn’t notice, too busy being uncomfortable at the pressure in his throat as Allyria removed one of the bonbons from where his throat closed around it.

“You’re Auntie Ash’s son?” Aegon parroted back, purple eyes wide.

“Holy fuck, how long has that been, a fucking lifetime ago?”

“Fucking language,” Aunt Allyria called out, mildly.

“I’m surprised you remember, you were what, three years old?”

“I’m two years younger than you, so right back at you, asshole. You’d think one would remember knowing a poncy ass named ‘Aegon’ of all things,” Jon snorted. Ghost’s leg twitched. “You should adjust the sedative.

“Oh, right.”

“Don’t stop working just because you’re talking, Egg, the talking isn’t for your benefit,” Aunt Allyria chastised, as she triumphantly removed the last mostly intact truffle from Ghost’s throat. “I’ve found big animals fare better under anesthesia if people are having amicable conversation around them like nothing’s happening, and also, do you two think that if I wash these I can eat them?”

“Ew,” they said, practically in unison.

“So, how many of these Ghost managed to eat up before his allergy kicked up?” Allyria asked.

“There’s just about half of those missing, so half a mint truffle?”

“Hm. You can stop the sedative now, Egg, and grab two epipens. You can even remove the access, he just needs to throw it up and drink water, now, but we’re moving him to the observation kennel in case something goes wrong.”

 

As Egg goes to fill in paperwork, and Allyria and Jon are wheeling the stretcher to the observation, his aunt chooses that moment to ask questions.

“So, you two knew each other, huh?”

“Don’t dash my hopes this was just you being a decent aunt bringing childhood friends together, aunt ‘Lyria,” Jon growled, upset. “It was funny once, but I’m twenty five now, I can find my own partners just fine.”

“But isn’t this perfect, though? I thought you two would get along, since he was going to be Ghost’s new vet anyway, and he seems like a nice enough kid, polite, it’s a given he likes dogs considering his profession--”

“You don’t even know if he’s into guys,” Jon drawled.

“He seems like a proper Dornish kid, for all that he was raised in King’s Landing,” she finished. “You never know, nephew mine, he did blush a little when he looked at you when you and Ned arrived with our little troublemaker choking on things he damn well know he’s allergic to,” she turned to Ghost, chastising the drowsy dog weakly.

“A guy blushing because of a guy arriving with a seven stone high content wolfdog with albinism isn’t a basis for a relationship,” he mocked, frowning.

“Oh, don’t quote Monty Python at me, you know damn well owning dragons should be a valid basis for government, we’ve discussed this,” she chided.

“My point still stands, and we both know, with how my hair is right now, he might’ve taken me for a girl, like Robb likes to mock me.”

“He might’ve not, and think about it, you always did like pilfering other people’s haircare, and Egg’s hair is very shiny, like a Northern filly’s mane.”

Jon snorted.

“He’s probably still reaping the benefits of Rhae’s obsession with hair. I remember she would make her parents sit down and practice doing braids on them instead of dolls.”

“You’re overly pessimistic about someone you barely knew as a toddler that has already shown signs of thinking you’re hot, Jon.”

“Ew! Allyria, you’re my aunt!” Jon scrunched up his face, shaking his head in disbelief. “Plus, for all we know, he was looking at my dad.”

“Considering I still don’t know what Ash sees in your dear dad, I doubt it.”

  
  


Aegon had come to Starfall for his post-grad for two simple reasons. He wanted to get as far away from the rest of Westeros and his father’s nagging for him to marry, and parading his corporate friends’ daughters in front of him; and when presented with several internship and residencies offers after being denied Bear Island by his father and cutting out Highgarden (to Uncle Oberyn’s chagrin) and Winterfell (to his father’s relief), he heard that the name of one of the senior veterinarians at Starfall was a Dr. Dayne, and had come on pure hope that he’d see little Jon again, since he had the vague memory of that being his friend’s surname.

As soon as he’d been excused from the procedure room to do Dr. Dayne’s paperwork, he first ran to the locker room, grabbed his backpack with his things for the day, and screamed into it. He had not actually expected to see Jon all grown up in his second day, rushing his wolfdog he was vaguely aware was the pride and joy breed of the Winterfell Estate (and wasn’t it vaguely amusing the Starks had taken the wolves that ate their sheep and breeded them to guard said sheep?), and even through the look of half exasperation, half heartbreaking despair, he almost kicked himself that his first thought was ‘who is this hot guy’, instead of ‘oh shit, the patient is bigger than myself’.

After finished the paperwork and busied himself with a five year old’s Green Tree Snake that was molting (the kid’s mother just brought her in because she refused to believe her mother that Noodle was really fine, and wanted a ‘pow-fess-nal’ opinion), he wondered how often would he have to face Jon, taking into account, even, that Starfall may be big on the map, but its urban center was decidedly entirely too small.

The next day, before his shift started, he thought it’d be a great way to start his day buying new things for his apartment, and was treated to the real Small Town Reception as no less than six small storeowners called at “Ghost’s New Doctor” to offer him discounts in houseware they themselves had made. He didn’t rightly know  _ how _ to tell them he didn’t need a cup sleeve, new oven mitts and a thing of pouches he wasn’t entirely sure how to use nor where to put it, but he left the small handcrafts mall with those, a couch arm tray for glasses, a linen groceries bag and inside it, a collection of bowls, cutting boards and cups and spoons, all in burnished wood.

He dumped all his purchases in his car, and as he was closing it again to go into the house appliances store (there was no microwave and he needed a new hairdryer, not to mention he had no idea in college how much he’d miss a coffee maker and a multiprocessor), an old lady stopped him, looking concerned.

“That’s your car, dearie?” she asked, in the tone of someone who knows something he doesn’t and it pains her.

“Yes?” he said, uncertain.

“Oh, poor thing, you’d do better with a pickup in these parts. Starfall’s got some parts that aren’t friendly to people in utilitarian cars.” She had the airs of someone who’s seen far too many city slickers like him get stuck in muddy paths, and had accustomed herself with carrying towing ropes in her trunk.

“Fucking hell, dude, aunt Allyria told me your car was pitiful, she didn’t say it had ponies instead of horsepower,” a familiar voice said, and Aegon was both happy and dismayed to see Jon there, with two younger kids that looked both nothing and a lot like him, Ghost in a tight leash, and a pre-teen blond, blue eyed kid that looked a tad like Allyria on tow.

“Ah, Jon, walking the children, I see,” the old lady joked, as Ghost nosed at her shopping bags and Jon pulled on the leash.

“Someone has to, since everytime Uncle and Father ask Ned to do it, we find Ghost chewing on the furniture, and the twins bouncing off the walls, one time literally,” he said, turned to the blond teenager, who at least had the decency to blush. “But anyway, Aegon, how do you plan to get to where you need to be a lot of the time on a car that looks like it’ll topple over if an auroch ever so much breathes on it?”

“It served me fine coming here from King’s Landing,” Aegon answered, tetchy, frowning something fierce.

“Yeah, but that’s mostly well-paved or cobble roads, and around these parts, you either have a pickup or a jeep, or you don’t work at the farms.”

“There’s an old man who drives up and down on a farm tractor,” one of the twins supplied, helpfully.

“Old Lady Jynessa comes from Blackmont sometimes in an auroch-pulled wheelhouse that’s about as old as she is,” the other finished, stifling a giggle.

“Old Lady Jynessa shouldn’t be used as an example of good choices,” the blond kid, Ned, Egg supposed, groused, hands in his pockets.

“Is this Old Lady Jynessa a frequent caller at the clinic?” he asked, confused.

“ _ Yes _ , and you’d do well putting some heavy money away for a pickup through the year,” Jon responded, shaking his head. “She lives all the way in Blackmont, but Blackmont and High Hermitage’s vet clinics aren’t up to her standards, so she calls here. And the fastest way to her farm goes across a shallow in the Torrentine, three former marshes and a rocky depression.”

Aegon looked at his car, thought about it going over all of that, and sighed, defeated.

Onto the pile of everything he’s already bought, he added ‘new off-road’ on top.

  
  


Ghost didn’t eat, do or get into anything dangerous in three months, and Jon is getting paranoid. 

Maybe the second chocolate scare got to his dog, but he can’t help but worry about it. Ghost is his baby, practically, and he wants the best for the big boy, but three months is far too long to go between practically suicide attempts. And so, he did what he thought was best when he didn’t know what to do when it came to Ghost: he took him to the vet clinic.

Even the receptionist, Sarella, was a bit surprised, and a lot amused.

“You brought the big lug because you’re not sure what’s going on, didn’t you?” She looked over to see a complete lack of signs of distress or blood.

“He hasn’t been in danger of dying in three months, Sarella. Something’s definitely wrong.”

She nodded, sagely, before waving for Jon to sit down.

“I’ll send you in with Aegon as soon as he’s done with Ms. Smithen’s shepherd hound.”

“What happened to that old battleaxe of a dog?”

“Ms. Smithen bought a new ram, and he’s a bit tetchy around shepherd dogs,” Sarella explained. “Headbutted Mittens right in the old girl’s ribs. Didn’t look like anything was broken, but Mittens  _ is _ 8 years old, and was wheezing something fierce.”

“Wait, so he’s not even here? Or was someone with Ms. Smithen?”

Ghost nuzzled his hand for pets, which he happily obliged. Sarella crumpled up her face. The two actions were completely unrelated.

“My  _ father _ was with Ms. Smithen. He drove her and Mittens over.”

Jon was trying his level best not to laugh but the temptation was too great.

“Well… You know how your dad is, ‘Rella,” Jon tried, diplomatically, supressing his hysterical laughter at the thought of Sarella’s father, who was about his own father’s age, sleeping with Ms. Smithen, who was about old enough to be Oberyn’s  _ grandmother _ .

“Yes, and I want to bleach that image from my brains and eyes as soon as the Gods permit,” she said, fervently. Then she levelled him with  _ a look _ . “You wouldn’t be laughing if that were your dad.”

“My mother would throw my father off the Palestone Sword with Dawn on his back if he did. According to mom, if he want mistresses, they have to be, at the very least, prettier than she is, to which father always responds that it’s very fortunate there’s no one prettier than mom, which is disgusting in its own way,” Jon said, grimacing.

“Enough of our parents’ escapades, how goes your love life? Allyria’s meddling resulted in anything?”

He glared at her, and Sarella had the nerve to snicker.

“I can’t believe she’s still doing that,” he groused. “She doesn’t even know if her newest matchmaking attempt will work, because she didn’t even ask if he even likes guys to begin with--”

“Oh, so you do care if  _ he _ likes you back,” she needled.

“Oh, fuck off, I really don’t. It’s the principle of the thing, you’re gonna matchmake someone, you gotta at least make sure they’re a little bit compatible,” he shot back, annoyed.

“True. But you gotta trust Allyria, she has never steered you wrong, did she?”

“To be honest, it says a lot that she has meddled all those times and lo and behold, I’m still single as a pringle.”

“Your idioms are the worst, Jon.”

He beamed at her.

“You say the sweetest things, ‘Rella.”

The door to one of the offices opened, and Ms. Smithen came out, followed by Sarella’s dad, who didn’t have the good sense of looking ashamed.

“Oh, hello, there, Jon! Did you know my nephew is Ghost’s new veterinarian?” Oberyn asked, radiant as only a man who got laid but mere hours ago could be. Jon couldn’t relate.

“Hey there, Oberyn. How’s the old girl?” He asked back, and belatedly realized his mistake as his friend’s father  _ beamed _ mischievously at him, and in spirit relinquished his soul to the abyss.

“Loreza is a wonderful woman, and she’s oh-so overjoyed that your youngest sister is named after her,” the man said, and Jon watched with a detached amusement as Sarella shot him a deathly glare that was tainted with how much spiritual pain she was in.

“Oh, I am,” replied the woman of  _ seventy _ , even though she didn’t look a day over 50. “So nice seeing a name like mine getting around again, the young ones and their northern fads of writing it with an ‘n’ in the middle.”

“I meant Mittens,” he heard himself saying, like an out of body experience. “How is  _ Mittens _ doing?”

“Her ribs are bruised, and Mittens is in strict bed rest for at least a week, if not more if she’s still short of breath when you bring her in next week. She’s to herd your socks and socks only, Ms. Smithen.” Aegon too, looked like he was trying to forget whatever it was his uncle told him.

“Absolutely, dearie, it’s about time Mittens’ daughters earned their keep too, herding without mom,” the old lady answered pleasantly.

The three young adults watched as Oberyn and Ms. Smithen took old Mittens, who was limping slightly from a sprained paw, probably, outside the clinic, and Sarella waited some ten seconds after the door was closed to yell at Jon, at least.

“Phrasing, Jon! Watch your damn words! You’re lucky dad was feeling merciful today!” she scolded, as angry as the Dragonmont.

“What happened last time?” Aegon asked in the tone of someone who doesn’t want to know the answer, really.

“We got treated to tales of how flexible still Ms. Smithen was. I don’t know about Sarella, but I had nightmares for weeks.”

“Dad is the worst,” she agreed.

“Uncle is the absolute worst,” Aegon reiterated, pained, and looking like he was going to have a few weeks of nightmares of his own.

“So, you can take Ghost in, Jon. The doctor is free,” Sarella pointed, and even under the grief for what was left of her innocence, Jon could hear the careful layers of… something.

“Oh? What happened with Ghost? He looks fine from here,” Aegon asked, curiously, eyeing the panting wolfdog.

“ _ Nothing happened _ ,” Jon said, pained, “and that’s the problem. He has a track record of needing to come here nearly every week since he got big enough and brave enough to get on the countertops--”

“It was a pain digitizing his file, by the way--”

“-- and last time he went more than two weeks without getting hospitalized, he was a pup and he had eaten the TV remote, and swallowed the batteries.”

Aegon looked slightly alarmed at that.

“Ah, yes, I can… I can see why you’re worried, now. Let’s take him to the x-ray, I can’t wait to put him under by myself and shove my entire hand down his throat to guide the camera in.”

In the end, Ghost had nothing. He ate nothing. He was perfectly clean, and healthy, and showing no signs of canine depression normally seen in wolfdogs because he was in constant contact with his humans and the working dogs of the Dayne’s farm.

“I don’t understand it, then,” Jon said, frowning. “ He’s nowhere near old, he’s barely out of wolfdog adolescence, he’s not supposed to be this  _ complacent _ and  _ calm _ whenever I can’t take him out to the farm because of college,” he complained.

“Maybe, call your family,” came Sarella’s voice from the reception. “Your cousin Ned just called, in a panic. Apparently he’s been taking Ghost out on runs because the other week you told him to either learn to close his bedroom or take Ghost for walks after Ghost ate his headphones, and didn’t think to tell you because he thought you’d notice.”

“How the fuck would I notice on  _ finals week?” _ He asked, shaking his head.

“He said he thought Allyria had told you, too,” Sarella said, grimacing.

“Oh, that explains just about everything,” Jon groaned, rolling his eyes and frowning.

“Why?” Aegon asked, and Jon debated breaking his old friend’s innocence or keep him in the dark. Sarella beat him to the punch, though.

“His aunt has this ridiculous habit of trying to set him up with people, and decided you’re the mark, Aegon.”

“O-oh,” Aegon stuttered, and Jon thought they were probably as red as each other; he wouldn’t know, having buried his face in his hands as soon as Sarella’s mouth opened, Ghost’s leash pressing into his eyeballs and making an odd line into his vision. “I’m… Uh… I’m flattered, I guess? But your aunt didn’t even ask me if I was dating…”

“Are you? So I can tell her this absolutely needs to stop, because it turns out, the last two times I needed to bring Ghost in had her handprints all over it,” Jon almost begged, looking up, nearly terrified.

Now, it’s not as if Jon thought Aegon grew up ugly. He was fairly sure he could recall several times when they were little where he called Aegon ‘pretty’, and, on the rare time he even remembered his old friend during his awkward teenagehood, he was firmly sure the other boy was a vision in inverted Dayne colors. Right now, he was stomping down on the part of his brain that was blaring sirens screaming ‘what the fuck, I’ve seen your dick before I even knew dating was a thing,  _ why am I thinking you’re hot’ _ , as in every other interaction with Aegon.

“Well,” Aegon demurred, looking away, blushing, and Jon did so too. Because how do you even respond to that?

“If you’re gonna suck face, I suggest you do so on your off time, Aegon; right now, you gotta stop making googly eyes at each other because Allyria just sent me a message asking if we need anything from the shop. Wouldn’t want the old meddling bat to be right, would you?” Sarella called from her chair, and they practically hurried to their places, Aegon into the clinic and Jon right outside, red as the sands along the beach, and if he thought too much about what happened, he’d likely be as red as the  _ mountains _ in no time.

  
  


Allyria was… suspicious.

Lately Aegon had been too happy, and her nephew too, for that matter. She decided poking at her new underling was safer than poking at the wasps nest that was her nephew’s mood when it came to her meddling.

“So, what’s got you so happy, huh?”

Aegon straight up beamed at her, one whole arm into a cow’s asshole not dampening his good humor.

“My boyfriend is in town,” he answered, simply, removing his arm with a ‘squelch’ sound Allyria thought she had gotten used to, and every three months or so she was proven wrong. “This one is good for covering.”

Allyria’s stomach fell, and she swallowed the embarrassment, taking a deep breath as she removed her own arm.

“That makes two, Jynessa will be happy, since Ned’s bringing his northern wooly bull and she’d hate to not have any cow good for it.” She sighed internally. “So, your boyfriend, huh?”

“Mmhmm,” he hummed, happily, changing gloves to move to the next cow. “I can’t believe it, I thought he wouldn’t make it, really.” He sounded far too happy for someone who was dipping an arm in a bucket of animal-grade lube. It was almost distressing.

“Jon’s been in a good mood lately, too,” she commented, off-hand.

“Maybe because he knows that you’ll stop throwing people at him for a while now that it’s clear to you I’m taken?” He asked, and Allyria had the good cheer to smile.

“Ah, well, can you blame me for worrying my nephew will end up a bitter farmhead like most of our neighbors?”

“Well, you could’ve asked me if I’m interested, for one.”

“Would you answer me if the first thing out of my mouth when I met you was ‘are you single’?” She pointed out.

“Touché.”

Jon on the other hand, was surprisingly less touchy about it than she thought.

“It’s just nice to know I’ve earned some respite, you know?” he said, happily, and pulled on Ghost’s leash, taking him to the back of his jeep to take the wolfdog out for a run at the farm.

“Ah, yes, so annoying to have your aunt introduce you to pretty people.”

“Allyria, you tried hooking me up with my uncle’s daughter once, I’d say it’s pretty annoying.”

She let it slide because he was probably hurt that this one boy she introduced him to was taken already (and isn’t it funny, she had checked his social media before for hints of any significant other at all, and there was none. Maybe he’s just actually a very private person). And, living in such a small town like Starfall, she would’ve heard about anything that happened, but the gossiping old ladies had nothing of the sort for her, not even with prompting.

It was actually kind of scary, how little  _ gossip _ about a new person in town was going on, really. Old Wylla confirmed that Aegon did indeed have a boyfriend, but she didn’t have a name to the kid yet. Ms. Smithen and her all-hearing ears had nothing more to add except the boy was rather cute, and she could see how good a pair they were. Even worse was the old, bald travelling merchant Varys, who, for all his knowledge of gossip that seemed all-encompassing and all-knowing, had nothing except that they’ve known each other for a long time.

“Oh, come on, Varys, how come you don’t know a thing about this, you’ve been in town for three days!”

“I cannot possibly know more than the old wives grapevine,” he replied, airily, arranging his perfumes and delicate silks with complicated woodblock stamps patterns in his temporary barrack.

“Bullshit,” she exclaimed, emphatically.

“It’s true, Ms. Dayne. Now if you’d please, I can see a line forming.”

She didn’t want to believe Varys on it, because the man always knew more than he let on, but maybe he would know more after the whole gaggle of people from the region went away with his finewares from Lys and beyond.

Even after selling all his things, Varys still claimed to know nothing, which unnerved Allyria to no end. People were either hiding something from her, or Aegon’s boyfriend was intensely private, both which were not even mutually exclusive. She would go insane by the end of the week, she thought.

Which is why, when she caught Aegon and Jon dry humping each other on the couch at Jon’s quarters in the old Dayne farm estate, it took her embarrassingly long to realize that yes, it was indeed her underling and her nephew there, and not Aegon and his ever elusive boyfriend.

She was just trying to invite them for family flatbread night, not to be an accessory to adultery (did it even count if they weren’t married?)

“Uh. enjoying yourselves there?” she asked, dumbly.

Allyria realized that night, that the entire town had been bribed to stay quiet on the matter of Jon and Aegon dating, because Jon offered discounts in the farm’s produce to everyone in town who kept their mouths shut about it.

“A little payback for being a pain in the ass,” Jon said, shrugging, looking more like she caught them actually having sex rather than just trying it with clothes on, when they explained it to her.

“We don’t really appreciate ppl meddling into our dating lives, is what he means,” Aegon completed, looking rather like the cream a famished cat ate with some delight.


	28. Brandon, Catelyn; clown school dropout

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: https://valar-morekinks.livejournal.com/8859.html?thread=3751067#t3751067
> 
> Summary: Brandon has to take off his clown shoes and pull his big boy pants on after being a colossal jerk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> do i have to include barbrey ryswell cameos in every fanfic with brandon stark in it? no, not really. is it funnier to have her there? absolutely
> 
> thank u all for sticking with me, and thank yall for 10k hits!

_ You can’t just date your brother’s ex, that’s like. Top rule of bro code, Ned! Plus, how do you know she’s not doing it to get back at me? _

Brandon had never believed in the power of words until now.

You never fully do believe that what you say in jest might be taken seriously. However, he should’ve seen this coming when he said what he did to Ned, his altogether too-serious brother, and now all his siblings, including the slightly hypocritical Lyanna “I’m shagging a married man  _ and _ his wife” Stark, were upset with him.

Now here he was, at stupid o’clock, setting foot in a library, Lyanna’s and Benjen’s angry stares shooting arrows on his back, and a mission that he had to see through or neither of said siblings would ever speak to him again (he couldn’t account for Lya following through, but Ben could and  _ would _ take that to his damn grave). He needed to convince Catelyn to take Ned back because Ned was a stubborn mule who took everything oh-so literally and hadn’t meant to hurt her.

At least he became fully convinced it was just Ned’s type, a girl who saw Brandon coming to her after Ned and her broke up and kicked him in the family jewels.

“Sweet… mercy, Cat!” He hissed, when in truth he wanted to scream in pain. “I’m not here to take advantage, I swear!”

“I don’t care why you’re here, disturbing me while I’m trying to study, Brandon,” she said icily. He could see now that she and Ned were a great match.

“I swear on the old gods and new, that you won’t regret not kicking me again if you listen to me a little,” he pleaded.

“You have a minute, Stark,” she practically decreed, in a tone that told him she was not up to his little games.

“Ned loves you, you know,” he started, and Catelyn pressed the start on his countdown on her phone.  _ Shit _ . “Uh, so, okay, Neddy doesn’t have a good understanding of my joking, sometimes, and I might’ve joked that it’s part of bro code to not date your literal brother’s ex, and he believed me, and that’s why he broke up with you. I deserved that kick in more ways than one. Please, talk to Ned.”

He expected another kick in the nuts. He deserved it, but he did not expect Cat to full on punch him. 

“Do better, Brandon. Why should I take your brother back, if he’s that stupid.”

He understood it as the chance he hoped it was, and took it.

“Ned’s always been too loyal to us, Cat, you’ve seen it with Lya and how he broke his oldest non-family friendship because Robert was being too forceful with her.” He took a breath, rubbing his probably bruised cheekbone. “I should’ve known better than to joke about bro codes and back stabbings with him. I made a poor joke, and you know how Ned is. He takes everything literally. I think he thought I still liked you, which I do, but not in the  _ I want to date you _ way anymore, and didn’t think he stood a chance.”

At that last sentence, he saw Catelyn’s expression soften ever so slightly, before hardening again.

“I didn’t know Ned was on the spectrum.”

“He doesn’t talk about it. We respect his privacy about it, mostly,” Brandon said, shrugging. “It’s not like it’s a huge ass deal, except when I decide to be an ass. Lya and Ben refuse to talk to me while I’m still wearing my ‘clown shoes’, as they call it.”

“More like making use of your clown post-doctorate, you mean,” Cat drawled, not impressed. “I’ll talk to Ned. If I don’t like what I hear, I have Barbrey Ryswell’s number. I’m sure she’ll jump at the opportunity to geld you as training for the colts.”

Brandon’s blood turned to ice, and he nearly saluted in reflex, instead forcibly nodding and muttering a hasty goodbye.

He prayed everything would be alright after that talk; he liked his balls right where they were.


	29. Catelyn Stark, Jon Snow gen; bastards by any other name

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: https://valar-morekinks.livejournal.com/8859.html?thread=3682203#t3682203
> 
> Summary: Catelyn regrets ever telling Ned she felt shamed by hosting his supposed bastard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> By some plot reasons, the starks survive from the red wedding onwards, shenanigans happen, this is an au
> 
> wink wink nudge nudge i ain't even touching with a ten foot pole the 'allyria is ned's bastard raised as a dayne' theory........ _for now_ but i will. i live for catelyn lives and swallows her words au

On the day of Jon’s-- Aemon’s coronation, Lady Catelyn thought she would be guilt-free, or as guilt-free as one could be when they knew that they had been not only hateful towards a motherless child, but a complete harpy to the rightful king to the point he found easier to slay gods and pet dragons than to look her in the eye.

As she looked around and found the eye of the Daynes, who sat close to the main altar by virtue of being claimed kin, she found out being guiltless was an impossible task.

The Lady Allyria sat with a girl and a boy, both of an age with the late King Robert’s oldest bastards, Mya Stone and Gendry Waters, and they looked upon their new king with a fierce proud that only those who felt even more of kin with someone could. The boy, the oldest of the two, had grey steel eyes and short blond hair in the style favored by the dornish, wild curls half rhoynish, half mountain Flint, but most of his build reminded her of her dear Ned. The girl had mostly Stark colors in the same wild curls as her brother, but her eyes were of an unnatural and startling purple color that made Catelyn think back of the Night King who came to the wall. She had never believed until then that there were Others’ blood in the Starks’ veins until she saw the Night King, but had she known Alysanne earlier, she would’ve never doubted those claims.

Rickard, the eldest, noticed her staring and turned casually, briefly glaring at her and then turning to his sister, who pretended to turn to look at him better and sent Catelyn a chilling smile, making her flinch and look ahead. The High Septon was finishing up and it would be foolish to dwell more in the past.

 

The feast was grand and subdued at the same time, more frugal than the court was used to, but it was a display that the smallfolk needed to see, their nobles willing to reign it in for the sake of the greater good. Or at least that was what Aemon had spun to the nobles, for Robb told her, laughing, that Aemon was uncomfortable enough in the high table, he wasn’t going to make himself even more at odds with his own position by throwing a huge feast that was sure to deplete the winter storages faster.

“Lady Stark. Lady Sansa. Arya.” A little high voice greeted them, and the slip of woman that was Alysanne Sand slid into a chair beside Arya on the table reserved for Stark family.

“This--” she stopped herself, because she couldn’t even bring herself to say it. This what? This table was for Starks only? One look at the High table where Aemon sat reminded her of her sins. “Well met, Alysanne.”


	30. fem!Jon/m!Ygritte; stolen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: https://valar-morekinks.livejournal.com/4024.html?thread=1785784#t1785784
> 
> Summary: Mance Rayder takes horrified pity on Lord Stark's bastard girl.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> does it sound like it should be even bigger? yes. but u gotta stop once in a while and ask urself: did i fulfill the prompt? if yes, u need to find a good one-liner and stop there aldkgdfj
> 
> thanks for putting up with my massive tendinitis/shoulder sprain recovery schedule, yall rock, for real

Alysane tried to escape, she really did.

Without the colorful frock of the bards, she could recognize that the man who called himself Abel the bard (and what a witticism that) was really the desertor King-Beyond-The-Wall Mance Rayder, who had visited Winterfell years past, and kept the secret of who dumped snow on Lord Commander Qorgyle.

“Stop squirming, little girl,” he huffed, dragging her onto his stolen horse again, while she fought tooth and nail to go  _ back _ . “I’m doin’ you a favor, really, now just come with me!”

“I want to go home!” she cried, but it was muffled by the thick sash one of the spearwives that accompanied the ex-ranger had put over her mouth.

“It’s not safe for you there, lil’ wolf,” one of the women grumbled, shooting a hateful glare in the general direction of Winterfell’s keep. “You didn’t notice the way that kneeler king was lookin’ at you, but we did. Mance’s really tryin’ to help you.”

They never stopped to explain to her what was so terrible about King Robert’s looks at her (though she did feel dirty whenever she noticed them), not until almost two days out into the Wolfswood, a couple of days away from Deepwood Motte, and Ghost finally found them, to Mance’s consternation.

“If the small thing found us, it’s just a matter of time, then,” the older spearwife, Dalla, mumbled.

“Ghost is a direwolf, your grace,” she muttered, haughtily, through the pain in her jaw. “Not many animals that aren’t direwolves that will try and get close; we only ever bothered getting the horses used to them. The other direwolves are my siblings’, and will only respond to them, to an extent.”

“So they are.” Mance’s voice was dripping with amusement.

“Where are you taking me? To sell me to the Ironborn for passage beyond the wall?” She petted Ghost, but kept her eyes firmly away from Val, Dalla and Mance.

“We wouldn’t have saved you from bein’ raped by that sorry excuse of a king if we planned on that, sweetling,” Dalla smiled at her, sardonically, and Alysanne’s eyes widened in horror. “‘Tis true, little one. No one should disrobe with their eyes anyone but someone they mean to bed. And your kneeler rules meant you couldn’t even defend yourself. As if the only thing that makes a king isn’t the people they rule.”

“You look more like that kneeler lord father of yours, too, than the others,” Val said, offhand. “Shouldn’t that remind the fat king you’re the daughter of his oh-so dearest friend?”

“She looks like her aunt Lyanna,” Mance said, pensive. “Yes, that’s it. If I remember, way back when the king was still a lord, he thought himself in love with the Stark Lord’s sister. You look like her, but, hmmm,” Mance Rayder paused, then, grabbing her chin and staring into her eyes, examining her features. “I don’t remember anyone of Stark blood being quite so pretty, and we should know; we Free Folk have more than our fair share of it,” he japed, a twinkle in his brown eyes.

She looked at Val and Dalla, and noticed their eyes an echo to those of the people at Winterfell. Two varying shades of gray, but unmistakably gray nonetheless. She looked at Mance, who, under his sharp features, hid an almost lupine look to his jaw and nose.

“You… You say the king… he thinks I’m my aunt Lyanna.” It wasn’t a question. She had tried to forget how the fat, drunken man had looked at her and breathed out her aunt’s name, glassy, beady blue eyes running over her body like a lecher.

“He’s been idealizing the image of Lady Lyanna for fifteen years,” Mance nodded. “She has never been as pretty as you. She was a pretty thing, mind, but the kneeler king fancied Lady Lyanna in love with him, and had all those years of clinging to her memory, and justifying hating his wife by thinking Lady Lyanna was prettier than his queen. Why, when you’re old enough, you’ll probably be the prettiest thing north of the Neck.”

The way he said it was half a jest, and Alysanne felt embarrassed. She pulled her furs closer, all too aware that her figure was much, much more developed than other girls of five-and-ten. The wildlings laughed, Dalla shaking her head and patting Alysanne’s hair.

“Don’t you worry, little girl. Where we’re going, the kneeler king can’t follow, and you can rightfully gut anyone who tries to touch you without your permission.”

They find no need to restrain her after two more days, and she can see her first glimpse of the Wall of her ancestor.

 

Ygren taught her the bow.

That was all there was to their interactions, really, Alysanne reminded herself. She couldn’t help but blush around the boy, but then, he was the first boy of nine-and-ten she didn’t feel the urge to kick in the balls (which, around Theon, was akin to an ingrained instinct, really). Truly, he did huddle closer to her than absolutely necessary when correcting her grip, but she just attributed it to being naturally a very  _ warm _ person, the cold gripping her but not in the all-consuming way most rangers complained about when they visited Winterfell to treat with her Lord Father.

She trained with Varamyr, too, and hated every single second of it, despite the nice feeling of knowing where that feeling of magic and another’s consciousness came from. Varamyr was handsy, and smelled like rotting… something. She spared thought to wonder how someone’s soul could be so rotten one could smell in the physical world once, when talking to Ygren by the fire.

“Tormund calls him a vicious little runt,” Ygren said, shrugging. “He is the best one to teach you, with his being able t’ skinchange about so much, I’ll give him that. Though I think if he bothers you more, I could shoot him for you.”

Ygren smiled at her, lopsided. He had a mop of red hair, much like her siblings, and while he was nowhere near as handsome as her brother, she blushed fiercely all the same, pouting slightly, to which the boy snorted softly.

She liked Ygren. She liked him a lot. She liked him even more when he pulled her into a sideways hug, and then just sat with her by the fire, watching as Tormund launched into a bawdy two part song while Mance Rayder accompanied him, singing the part of the lady in a terrible falsetto while playing his lute.

 

Ghost nearly tore Varamyr’s hand off. Or rather, Alysanne nearly did it, coming into the skinchanger’s tent to check on her body when One-eye was One-eye again instead of Varamyr, and finding the old disgusting man pulling at her clothes, touching her breasts and fondling her thighs.

“He deserved it,” Ygren told her, trying not to laugh.

“I wish I did it,” she replied, fervently. “Should’ve torn the head off him like my lord father would to any criminal.”

“Well, I’m happy he didn’t do a thing to you, Aly.”

Her heart started beating faster, getting stuck in her throat.

“Truly,” Ygren continued, softly. “You deserve to be properly stolen, not taken by a man who smells of bear shit and takes advantage o’ other skinchangers.”

“Some would argue that Mance already stole me,” she pointed out.

“Well, some are dunces,” the boy said, petulantly.

That night, she was awoken by Ghost’s tail thumping on her belly.

“What has you so happy, girl,” she mumbled, sleep-addled.

“I have treats in my pants,” came Ygren’s voice from the bottom of her sleeping furs, amused.

Alysanne didn’t scream by some stroke of luck.

“What are you doing here?” She hissed, sitting up, biting her tongue on the  _ “it’s improper” _ that wanted to slip out; this was beyond the wall, there were… more flexible propriety rules than south of the wall.

“Stealing you, what does it look like I’m doing?” He answered, nonchalantly, tossing a bag at her. “Took the liberty o’ gathering your things. Now get up, we ‘ave places to be.”

She looked dumbfounded for a while longer, until Ygren’s “Aly!” broke her out of her reverie. She pulled her boots on quickly, then rose, and they sneaked out of Mance’s tent, where she, Mance, Dalla and Val lived. They quickly slipped into Ygren’s own tent, and Ghost set up to sleep by the entrance, and Aly sat by the end of Ygren’s furs while the boy happily set about spreading the armful of her furs to make a bigger sleeping space on the tent’s ground.

“Now…” she started, then bit her lip and powered through, forcing her tongue to shape the words. “Now what?”

Ygren kneeled in front of her, tilted his head to one side like Ghost does when she’s trying to be cute, then pulled her into a kiss.  _ It’s just a dream, then _ , she told herself then, and reacted accordingly, letting herself be guided onto the other’s lap, squealing when Ygren’s cold hands slipped inside her furs, to which he laughed, sliding his hands down to under her pants, and she unlaced them.

“Eager, aren’t we,” he tutted, smirking, tilting Alysanne into the sleeping space and pulling the furs onto his back before working to unlace his own breeches, while Aly fumbled with her boots.

“I mean, you’re mine and I’m yours, right?” she asked, quoting back a faint memory of a dream she’s had that went like this one.

“Not quite; isn’t it one of your kneeler traditions that you’re not truly married until you’ve fucked?” He was laughing, and Alysanne blushed furiously, but nodded. “Just take care you don’t wake up the whole camp with your pretty voice, I don’t want t’ wake up looking at Mance’s sword like that Sigorn did.”

She blushed harder, but laughed. It was still so strange that no one treated her as used, broken goods after she had too much of Tormund’s goat’s milk and woke up to a stranger’s furs and Mance’s scolding of a Thenn boy who had taken the time to teach her the Old Tongue in exchange of her teaching him more Common. It was just a fact of life; pretty Aly Snow lost her maidenhead to a Thenn boy while roaring drunk, to Mance Rayder’s consternation and Tormund Giantsbane absolute fierce pride; the taller, older grandfatherly man nearly moved to adopt her into his gaggle of children.

“You know he was more upset at me being drunk when it happened than he was at Sigorn,” she huffed, biting on a mewl when Ygren’s hands found her folds wet and ready.

“Do you want to test that?” He asked, pulling his pants down, and Aly tried really hard not to look down and failed, making Ygren snort. “It’s a cock, not a shadowcat, Lady Snow.”

“I’m not overly fond of shadowcats,” she muttered, and pulled Ygren into a kiss while the boy shook with suppressed laughter.

“Little warg lady,” Ygren whispered against her neck, and her legs wrapped around his waist as she felt him enter her, biting her lip on the moan that threatened to escape.

(She didn’t manage to keep her voice down. Alysanne refused to be ashamed, though, when she emerged from Ygren’s tent the next day with a huge bite on her neck showing and the whole camp looking at her with some odd mix of exasperation and amusement on their faces.)

 

She had left her little boy with Dalla, in Mance’s tent. Brandon, named for her knightly brother who, last she heard, had fallen off the Broken Tower and would never walk again.  _ Not all Brandons have bad luck like that, Ygren, _ she protested when her man poked fun at her. Alysanne could only hope that Dalla and Mance would manage to run with the others into the Haunted Forest, as Ygren and her were shackled and shoved in the direction of the Watch’s host. She could see a few direwolf banners amongst the other northern houses, and a new one that she didn’t recognize.

Alysanne took a deep breath and stood straight as they dragged the free folk prisoners to where the gathered lords had a block set up. If she was going to die, she wouldn’t die like a coward at least.

Or at least she intended to.

Ghost chose that moment to attack their guards, but curiously didn’t tear them limb by limb, for they stood petrified in shock at seeing the giant direwolf, as if they’ve seen an actual phantom. Her girl snarled at everyone, until a large gray beast loped away from the main party of kneelers, followed by a man in Stark grey. She knew that wolf.

“Grey Wind?” she asked, mystified, as the wolves sniffed at each other, and Grey Wind licked Ghost’s nose, which led to Ghost tackling her brother.

“Ghost? You’re alive?” she heard the man ask, and their eyes met, grey on ice blue. “Aly?”

“Robb?!” She gaped, wide eyed.

“Remove her shackles this instant! This is my sister!” He ordered, frowning, at the guards, then looked at the rest of the captives. “Did they keep you prisoner all this time, Aly?” Robb held her by the shoulders, glaring at Ygren, who had tried to wrench himself free from the guards’ hands to get to her.

“What? No!” She raised her voice, getting angry on the free folk’s collective behalf. “Mance took me away, but the King was going to rape me!”

Robb blinked, as if Aly had slapped him.

“The King was father’s best friend, he would nev--”

“He was looking at me as if I was a piece of meat dangled in front of a hungry wolf. He never once saw his friend’s daughter in me, only the wolf maiden he fancied himself in love with. Robert Baratheon was  _ the king _ , Robb, he would do as he pleased, and father would never be able to contest it, and Lady Stark would-- don’t look at me like that, Robb. You know she would’ve been ecstatic at the opportunity to chase me off to a Wintertown brothel.”

“Mother--” Robb started, angry, but then deflated, frowning almost poutily. “Father is coming, we should get you away--”

“No. I’m not going anywhere without my family.” Alysanne said, planting both feet on the floor. She knew that should Robb choose, he could lift her and carry her away, but that wasn’t him.

“We are your family!” He was yelling, pointing at the other Northmen.

“Yet the free folk taught me to use a bow, how to warg, how to survive here, and that’s not even mentioning  _ my _ family!” She exclaimed, angrily, putting new emphasis on her words. “Ser Rodrik,” she turned to the faithful knight, who had unshackled her, “release my husband and the other free folk. They will not fight,” she turned at the others, who groaned but nodded, “as long as no harm comes to them.”

“But Alysanne--” Ser Rodrik started to protest, but caught sight of the look on her face.

“Your husband?” Robb asked, confused. Lord Stark chose precisely that moment to arrive at their side, and a dark look crossed his face at catching the tail end of the conversation.

“Now, Ser Rodrik!” She demanded, consciously stilling her hand over her dagger.

“What’s this I hear about a husband, Alysanne?” Lord Stark’s forbidding voice spoke, all lordly and it froze Alysanne’s anger to the core. As soon as the steel hit the floor, Ygren ran to her, putting a hand to her shoulder, and she surrendered to his embrace in place of facing Lord Eddard. “Alysanne. Answer me.”

“And who’re you to demand things?” Ygren, bless his heart, turned angrily at Lord Stark, who frowned. “She’s mine, and I’m hers, I’m sure you southrons are familiar with the concept.”

“I’m her father,” Lord Eddard shot back, and it had quite the opposite effect in their party as what Lord Eddard expected. Ygren and the other free folk started laughing, or they tried to suppress the urge to belt out into hystericals.

“I do believe we have a long overdue chat to be had… Uncle.”

  
  


The Northern banners forced King Stannis’ forces to stand down.

“After father refused being hand, because of all that happened to our family since the king offered was seen as bad omens by the smallfolk, who threatened to riot if another Lord Stark went south to die, King Robert called down Lord Tywin to be hand. Stannis picked up where Lord Arryn left off, and declared the princes and princess bastards, children of incest, by the queen and her brother.” Robb was talking, looking upon her son in awe and confusion, as little Brandon struggled to sit upright on his own on Alysanne’s lap. “King Robert killed Queen Cersei in a rage, but before he could get to the children, the Kingslayer cut him down. No one knows where the children and him are now, only that they fled into Essos.”

“Except for Joffrey,” she pointed out.

“Except for Joffrey,” he nodded. “Upon being crowned, he tried to attack the North through the Neck, to collect his wife. Sansa was so elated, until she caught wind that the bastard king was after you.” Alysanne blanched. “She might hate you a tad more than she already did, now. Mother was furious. After Bran woke, he kept telling us not to come after you, that he knew you were fine, and we didn’t really… believe him. But Father did send Theon to White Harbor, so there’s that.”

“So he could learn how to run a ship, and not get to his lordship over the Iron Islands so green. Smart,” she said, smiling as little Brandon bit on her finger with his two teeth.

“Father thought so too. After Joffrey’s forces were nearly decimated at Moat Cailin, he lost much of the support he had, including, unofficially, that of his grandfather. And there are… rumours now, trickling up from King’s Landing, that the king hires whores and they go into the Red Keep, but they don’t… They don’t come  _ out _ . The Mountain is terrorizing the Riverlands, the Vale is in open rebellion, Aunt Lysa declared herself Queen Regent for our cousin, Robert, Dorne won’t lift a finger to help anyone ever since the death of Princess Elia and her children, and the Crownlands have been systematically sabotaging King Joffrey. The Stormlands and the Reach joined in alliance, and declared Lord Renly the rightful king, despite Stannis’ right of primogeniture.”

“And that is why Uncle is supporting King Stannis,” she finished, putting little Brandon sitting on Ghost’s side, by her paws.

“Yes… I still can’t believe it. He nearly blends in with Ghost’s fur.” Robb extended a hand to the baby, who pulled on it gleefully.

Alysanne looked at her son, with his big, purple eyes, and hair the color of spun silver. The only indication that Ygren and her were his parents were his long face, and mop of curly hair, even if the curls were more like hers. If one weren’t paying attention, they would only see the babe’s too alert eyes peeking from a mass of white.

“We’re not trying to invade the North,” she said, placing a little horse toy Mance had whittled for her son. “I’ve… I’ve seen things, Robb. Terrible things, that the watch is trying to keep quiet on. I know they ran into the same things I’ve seen, because I’ve gotten this,” she pulls a dragonglass dagger from her boot, “from a steward of the Night’s Watch, who was running for the Nightfort with a girl from Craster’s.” She took a breath. “He came saying that dragonglass is the only thing that can kill them.”

“You’re scaring me, Aly. What’s them?” Robb asked, unnerved.

“The Others,” she answered, feeling her heart drop when Robb stared at her in disbelief. “It’s true! I’ve seen the wights! Or do you think people who’ve seen worse summers than we’ve seen winters would be running from snow?”

Robb inclined his head, sheepishly.

“Smalljon is gonna be heartbroken,” he said, suddenly.

“I tell you an army of undead wights we have no hope of fending off from this side of the wall is coming, and you’re thinking of Smalljon’s feelings?” She questions, incredulously.

“I mean, when word that you’d been missing, likely stolen away by wildlings, reached Last Hearth, he started baying for wildling blood. He’s been meaning to ask father to marry you ever since last Harvest festival.”

She blushed. Smalljon was by no means a small man, nearly twice as tall as she was, burly and handsome in a rugged, particularly  _ northern _ way, who was nearly five years older than her. When she was little, and the Umbers visited Winterfell, Smalljon played the Vhagar to her Visenya, or the Meleys to her Rhaenys, as he ran after Robb, who rode on a pony, and let her have it at her brother-cousin with a twig. He was by all means a nice, if a bit boisterous, man, and would’ve been a good husband to her. However, being married herself for near a year, and in no way a maid anymore, a single thought ran through her head, and she unfortunately blurted it out.

“Gods, can you imagine, he’d rip me in half during the bedding.”

Robb nodded, before what she said was fully understood, and he snapped around to look at her, the most brilliant mix of hilarity and horror, with a dash of respect, showing on his face, while little Brandon settled into a sleeping Ghost to nap himself.

“He… he would… Oh my  _ gods _ , Aly! Now you made me pity the poor girl that gets to marry him!”

“You should’ve started way before I mentioned it!” She laughed, embarrassed. “I mean, don’t pricks shrink in the cold? Didn’t you  _ bathe _ on the way here?”

“Aly,  _ no _ , I didn’t  _ look _ at Smalljon while we were bathing!” He looked mildly horrified, and protesting far too much.

“Ah, so you did look, and didn’t think anything of it, because anyone looks small next to any Umber, but now that I mentioned, you’re thinking about it,” she teased, leaning forward to flick Robb’s forehead.

_ “Stop,” _ he begged, shaking his head. “I liked you better when you were absolutely terrified of cocks!”

“Well,” came Ygren’s amused voice from the flap of the tent, followed by a sickly pale Lord Eddard and a more than satisfied Mance Rayder. “I, for one, don’t mind that.”

She rose from the ground, walking over to Ygren and planting a small kiss on his face.

“Uncle, Robb, I would like to introduce to you Brandon’s father, Ygren.”

None of them commented she wasn’t referring to him as husband anymore. She hoped they understood that it was not the custom of Ygren’s clan. Or that they understood that not all free folk used ‘marriage’ as a definition for a longstanding relationship.

“So, this is the famed Lord Stark,” Ygren said, nodding in her Uncle’s direction. “If it weren’t for you being a piss poor liar, folk around here would’ve tried t’ smother my son in his sleep for looking like a little Other.”

“Ygren!” She chastised, a little horrified at the tone he used, but said no more. He wasn’t wrong, after all. Her uncle had the good grace of looking embarrassed, and her cousin was looking at them like one would watch a joust.

“I didn’t need to convince the realms, I just needed to convince the king,” Uncle Ned shrugged, as if it was that simple, and maybe it was. After all, not all the realms would be calling for justice upon the Targaryens; only the North had any legitimate grievances with King Aerys, and the Riverlands and Vale were kin. 

King Robert, however, was a petty man unworthy of his station, calling for blood of his own kin, as she remembered her histories well, and for the heads of children and an innocent abused woman. His own proclivities and the company he kept, with the exception of Uncle Ned, led him to believe all men left an army of bastards wherever they went, that it was natural, and was likely delighted that his friend wasn’t as honorable as the realms at large thought. She knew for a fact, from all the little gifts she’s received the one time she visited White Harbor when a Velaryon envoy was there, that at the very least the Lords of the Narrow Sea weren’t convinced. She knew that Dorne suspected from the rather pushy letters coming from Dornish houses to foster her. King Robert, however, saw the ghost of the woman he obsessed about because she never wanted him in Alysanne, and if it weren’t for Mance, she would’ve been left to Lady Stark’s designs after the King fulfilled his rotten fantasies with her.

“Why have you never told me?” she asked, suddenly. “I know it was treason, probably still is, but… my life was forfeit either way, if the king could be convinced of the truth. Why not tell me?”

“Ashamed as I am to say it, I was afraid you’d slip up and tell Catelyn.” He took a deep breath, trying to hide the shame and discomfort. “I promised your mother I would protect you, and it has always seemed like a good idea to not tell you too, because there would be that tiny fear in my mind you would slip up one day, when you argued with my wife, and Catelyn, out of spite, would tell Robert, and Robert would believe  _ her _ .”

“Sounds… sounds like something I would do,” she admitted, sheepishly. “Have you… have you told Lady Stark about me? About my mother?”

“No, I… I thought about it, when I found out Mance Rayder had stolen you away--”

“Call it like it is, Lord Stark, he saved her,” Ygren interrupted.

“I-- excuse me?” Uncle Ned asked, confused.

“Mance’s told us all of the kneeler king, you know,” her man continued, frowning. “How he was a great warrior turned a fat oaf, who beat up his queen just like the mad one your family fought against, and that he took Aly away because he was afraid  _ for _ her, that you dearest friend would rape your dearest daughter, and you would do what, Lord Stark? What would you and your kneeler lords do? Aly could defend herself, and die at the hand of his guards, or she could let it happen and die by her own hand or by the hand of his queen.”

“I would’ve protected her,” Robb started, but then frowned, and looked at his father. “I couldn’t’ve, could I? Had that happened, you would either have to kill your friend, or bury Aly’s corpse because your hands would be tied, and so would mine. It was a  _ mercy _ , that Mance Rayder took her when he did.”

“He wasn’t likely thinking of me and the political ramifications of stealing my daughter when he did it, but yes,” Lord Eddard said, somberly. “It was.”


	31. Jon Snow/multiple; reflected image

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt: https://valar-morekinks.livejournal.com/4024.html?thread=1789624#t1789624
> 
> Summary: Prince Aemon's painful struggle with whatever he sees in the mirror while dressing up, PART 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i have no excuse other than pain and insomnia, and a HUGE plot bunny that strong-armed me into building up a layered, somewhat structured narrative for once in my life, and then i proceeded to george-martin it.
> 
> the pairings in this are *clears throat*: jon/egg, jon/loras, past jon/arianne, endgame in rarepair, as in this is the FIRST FIC of it on AO3, last i checked, jon snow/desmera redwyne. u heard me. let the sufferment begin bc i'm p sure that if u end up liking desmera and jon together, this is THE ONLY fic of it on ao3.
> 
> again, this is part 1/2, i'll be back with another gotdan behemoth in hopefully less than three whole weeks with the riding lesson, rhaenys' marriage, the boating lesson, the official announcement of egg's betrothal, egg's marriage, THEN jon's betrothal and marriage.  
> pls don't kill me for giving u a rareass pair. i hate myself for all of us enough for it.

Her brother is a stupid, clueless ditz, Rhaenys concluded.

Not Aegon, that one was made up by the gods equal parts scholar and fool, but he at the very least had enough brains to know when people were being… unseemingly forward, and to know they were being such because he was, honestly, rather fetching. No, Rhaenys was about to rip the pearls out of her delicately braided hair because of  _ Aemon _ .

Her baby brother, her little partner-in-crime in the eyes of their grandfather, the North to her Dorne, had, according to a nearly hysterical Lady Margaery, just lectured a Celtigar girl on proper behavior for girls of her station, after said Lady Laena all but propositioned her baby brother.

“Granted,” Margaery pointed out, wiping tears from her face, “he faked well not being embarrassed until they reached a more secluded space of the gardens, and wasn’t rude or anything, but he might as well have ordered her lashed, by the way Laena stormed off.”

“He still doesn’t have a clue, does he,” Rhaenys said, shaking her head, exasperated.

“If Loras can’t make him see reality, no one can,” her lady agreed. “My brother told me he was going to try his chances, see if maybe your brother isn’t quite clueless, but just… cuts with the other side, as Grandmother says, and I told him to be quite explicit. I know that Aemon will run to either you or Aegon when it happens, so…” Margaery waggled her eyebrows in a quite improper way.

“Oh, I will send the dragons to Lady Olenna, don’t worry.”

“I shall press for a betrothal between myself and Prince Aemon if it’s that. I would hate to see Loras devastated if it comes to that,” she vowed, with a solemnity that, Rhaenys thought, was the reason they got along so well; they both had stupid little brothers they loved, but had to manage them like a herd of cats.

“Loras would have to fight Aegon, if it’s that. I swear to the gods, that one is Targaryen to the bone not just in looks,” she complained, fondly.

“Oh, so that’s what Ser Jaime and Ser Arthur were laughing and cringing about the other morning?” Margaery asked, and Rhaenys’ interest was piqued. She motioned for a servant to bring more wine and breadrolls, as she looked in mild sisterly exhaustion at the rose vines growing on the trellis.

“Aegon doesn’t know the meaning of  _ subtle _ , I think the entire city thinks by now he likes to suck his brother’s cock,” Rhaenys whispered conspiratorially, “but what  _ did _ you hear from their Kingsguards?”

“Oh, nothing so scandalous, but apparently the other night, Aegon faked a nightmare and pouted his way into Aemon’s bed, and the following morning, Aegon was even more pouty and Aemon was upset at having somehow upset his big brother but not knowing how that happened. He looked quite the lost puppy, I heard.”

“These two will drive me into an early grave, I swear,” the princess muttered, hiding her fond smile into the rim of her goblet.

 

Margaery invited her for a midday meal in her own solar the next day. Rhaenys knew exactly what had happened, having been invited to dinner and breakfast by both her brothers, but, she reasoned, it wouldn’t stop being hilarious anytime soon.

“Rhaenys, he said,” and she straightened up, putting on a pout and voice going as deep as she could, “‘I-- me? You think I’m pretty?’ to Loras, as if he  _ didn’t know he was good-looking _ ,” Margaery laughed, in a very unladylike way, miming her exasperation with a forkful of pheasant.

_ “I know _ ,” she laughed too, because what was she to do? It was absolutely hilarious. “I think, on an empirical level, he knows he’s not bad looking, having grown knowing his entire family was made of people with more than their fair share of beauty, but I don’t think he thought he was  _ as _ good-looking as the rest of us!”

“I have half a mind to break into his quarters with some of the ladies who have tried to get him to court them, and jump him, maybe  _ then _ he’ll believe it,” her friend scoffed.

“Don’t do that, we don’t want Aemon blamed for the maidenheads Aegon took,” she tutted.

“Oh gods, I can see it now,  _ the scandal _ , some good half of the Crownlands’ eligible maidens getting hastily married off because of Prince Aegon’s whoring, but it all being blamed on Prince Aemon, and people  _ buying it _ ; the good, well-behaved nephew and almost carbon-copy of the honorable Lord Stark, a wanton prince.”

“Don’t even joke about it, between the… unfortunate circumstances of his birth, squiring to Uncle Oberyn in Dorne and the rumors the palace staff keeps spreading thanks to Aegon’s over-friendliness, he’s terrified of being seen as a reckless slut.”

Margaery seemed to think on it for a little, before shaking her head.

“Honestly, I think some people would be relieved to see him being more… carefree, let’s say. But I’d just like to point out, he hasn’t ever fully rebuked any proposition, has he?”

“He… You’re absolutely right,” it dawned on Rhaenys. “I’d just chalk it up to him being too polite to ever mention it again, but I wouldn’t discard that Uncle Oberyn made more an impression on Aemon than he would like the world to know,” she whispered, conspiratorially. It was technically true, but she had swore on her baby brother’s tree gods to keep his secrets, so she framed it more as juicy gossip than her knowing anything.

“Prince Oberyn should never give a child the sex talk ever again,” Margaery agreed, mildly, slicing some venison to put on her flatbread. “I never wanted to hear so many jokes at my brother’s expense in my life.”

“You’re just annoyed you’re dooming yourself to the life of an old maid for the sake of your brother’s happiness, and will never need to worry about any of what my uncle talked about,” Rhaenys shot back, amused.

“That too,” she sighed. “Also, Loras mentioned an… interesting thing, too.”

“Oh? Do tell.”

“He saw Lady Cersei trying to lure Aemon into… things. I believe she was trying to proposition your brother, from what mine said.”

“Oh, by the Crone’s saggy tits. What did she say this time?” Rhaenys groaned into her hands, looking into the red stone of the ceiling.

“Let it be noted that your baby brother might be a dunce on some things, but he’s not entirely useless. Loras said she was going on about giving him his due, in a way that suggested more than just an old slut trying to ingratiate herself with the royal family yet again, and Aemon told her his due is Summerhall, or the Tower of the Hand, and if she keeps insisting, perhaps the White Sword Tower.” Margaery snickered softly, shaking her head. “He’s blunt as a tourney sword, but he can be very subtle when he wants to.”

“As subtle as someone as honest as him can be, anyway. He’s not made for the life of politics as Aegon is, for all his mummeries and follies. But gods, if his threat to swear himself to the Kingsguard if Cersei doesn’t cease and desist gets to the ears of Aemon’s little admirers, we’ll be handling an extremely vexed Tywin over his daughter’s death.”

“Oh, and doesn’t that sound just lovely,” her lady drawled, sipping her tea. “Maybe someone should.”

“My friend, I love you, but don’t even joke about that. We have just about gotten enough votes to depose Grandfather. Losing Lord Tywin’s vote just means more headaches than it’s worth. Although,” Rhaenys said, tilting her head in recognition, “it would be rather funny, seeing the old lion squirm.”

 

Aemon called her for an afternoon tea by the giant garden that preceded the godswoods. That in itself wasn’t uncommon; she knew her brother liked the holy atmosphere that the castle’s godswood now held, thanks to his uncle’s gift of a weirwood sapling that has grown into a sizeable, most respectable little heart tree, with a Green Man from the Isle of Faces coming over on the personal request of Aemon (who went to the island himself to request it) having come over to carve a face for the gods to see through. As soon as the face was carved, it took but a week for Aemon to notice people didn’t really come this way unless they were northerners, Blackwoods, Daynes or Lords of Crackclaw Point, and made a point to hide from people seeking him in and around the godswoods. What has stricken her as uncommon about it, was that he was firmly against her bringing Margaery with her this time. He only rarely did that, rather preferring to wait for nightfall and sneaking into her chambers.

“Why the mysterious summons, little brother?” She asked, curiously.

“You’re the only person I know that gets it,” he said, sadly. Rhaenys straightened up in her seat immediately, assuming her Big Sister posture, and waving away the servants. She knew that tone, and that phrase.

He did something completely normal for Aegon and other highborn men, but because of things he has no control over, people would judge him just as harshly as people judge her whenever she’s too… dornish for everyone else’s sensibilities, and now, he was seeking the counsel of the only person he knew that could possibly understand the inner turmoil he felt.

That was his we’re-outsiders-together tone.

“You know you can tell me anything, no judgement, right?” She asked, softly. “Big sis will always be here for you.” Aemon hesitated, still, and the sight of it made Rhaenys’ heart hurt. “I promise you, there’s nothing you can tell me that will make me ever turn away from you, Aems.”

Her brother still seemed uncomfortable, but finally gathered up the courage to say what he wanted.

“I-- I cornered Loras after the midday meal,” he started, slowly, thinking. He propped his elbows on the table, and hid his face into his hands. “I kissed him, and then he didn’t… he didn’t react at all, so I just… ran to the godswoods and been hiding here ever since.”

Rhaenys blinked, incredulous, at her little baby brother, a piece of creampuff halfway to her mouth. She was well aware her brother was inching towards panic with every second that went by that she just stood there, her creampuff slice ever closer to splattering onto her dress, but she was just too shocked to react properly. She only snapped out of it when she saw him duck his eyes and hunch onto himself.

“Oh,” she managed out, then shoved the sweet into her mouth, dropping the fork and scraping her chair to the side, then grabbed Aemon’s hands into her own. “Well, didn’t he say you’re pretty the other day?” she asked, gently.

“Even so, I don’t think he appreciated being kissed by force.”

She tilted her head to one side, and Aemon frowned harder.

“You’ll get wrinkles like that.” She poked at his forehead, smoothing the lines. “Trust me, Aems, if there’s anyone Loras would appreciate being mussed by, with his entire family’s approval, it’s you. Garlan’s been telling me how Lord Renly’s looking too… predatorily at his little brother, and he’d rather Loras be known as Prince Aemon’s whore than Lord Renly’s.” She shrugged, lifting his hands and kissing the back of them.

“I-- No--  _ He would never--!” _ Aemon sputtered, turning a brilliant shade of red that nearly matched the dragons in his doublet, looking properly terrified.

“Oh, I’m pretty sure he would, baby brother. I have it on pretty good authority that whenever Lord Loras isn’t on the practice yard, he’s on the rafters sighing after ‘Prince Aemon’s perfect arms’, or somesuch,” she teased, and Aemon all but slammed his face into the table, plopping about for the cold patches to cool his rapidly warming face; he looked ten seconds away from a burst vessel.

“Please never repeat that again, Rhae, that’s just… disturbing.”

“Oh, I’m disturbing, but playing kissing games with Aegon and Dany isn’t.” She teased, and Aemon just glared at her before cushioning his face by putting his crossed arms on the table.

“Dany is our aunt, that’s not disgusting,” he said, clearly avoiding the former part of Rhaenys’ statement.

“Oh? And what about brothers? It’s not disgusting if it’s your brother?”

He turned his face into his arms and mumbled something that sounded suspiciously like ‘you don’t fuck your best friend’s sister, that’s just common sense’.

“Uh-huh. Best friends, you say? Best friends who play kissing games and sleep together.”

She kicked her leg up and poked at Aemon’s leg softly.

“It’s  _ practice _ , Rhae,” he said, turning on his arms.

“An awful lot of practice you do, do you think of the things Egg tells you when people tease you? Is that why you kept your blushing maiden reputation, despite everything?”

“... Mayhaps,” he answers petulantly, and back to blushing brilliantly.

“But, back to Loras, you’re not mad at yourself for some bullshit reason again,” she started, unconcerned. “You’re mad at yourself for thinking you forced Loras to do something, and that it was abusing your authority over him as a prince, am I correct?”

“Pretty much,” he said, resting his chin on his crossed arms now, looking at the pastries as if they offended him horribly.

“Hm. At least you’re not all ‘woe is me, Egg will hate me’, again. I did tell you Arianne has more in common with a harbor whore than with Daenerys,” she pointed out.

“Must you bring this up every time?” he moaned, rolling his eyes as if in physical pain.

“Oh, but that letter is so  _ entertaining _ , Aems!”

“You are a terrible, terrible sister, and I hope Garlan needs to be taught how to fuck a woman,” he grumbled, poking at a berry tart.

“Hmm, doubtful, baby brother. He  _ is  _ a  _ very _ attentive betrothed, after all,” she hummed, picking up her teacup and poorly hiding a smirk with it, watching as Aemon goes through all stages of grief in but a few seconds. He looks like he wants to say ‘disgusting’, but seems to think better of it.

“Now I know how you feel when I come to you talking about these things,” he concedes, pouting.

“Oh yes, absolutely,” she said, fervorously. “One of these days should be reserved for me to tell you exactly all the ways you can have a girl without taking her maidenhead, you honorable git, and I will be drawing them  _ all _ from  _ memory _ ,” she threatened, but really, Aemon perked up a bit about that. “And that reminds me, Aegon brought to my attention you seem to think you’re getting his used mistresses, instead of being aware you have a growing little sequit of admirers.”

“It’s not his secondhand mistresses with a vengeance?” He asked, cocking his head to the side, looking beautifully confused, almost like the big direwolf pup Lord Stark was bringing south for his nephew.

“Aemon, for the love of your tree gods, Mother did gift you a Myrish looking glass when you started dressing yourself, didn’t she?” Rhaenys asked, exasperated. He looked down, sheepishly, and chose to take a bite off a strawberry tart than answer her. “It is rather impossible, at least to me, that you  _ haven’t _ noticed how handsome you are.”

“You’re my sister,” he said, through a mouthful of tart, then swallowed. “You don’t count, you’re basically obligated by sibling loyalty to think I’m handsome.”

“I’m also obligated by sibling loyalty to let you know you and Aegon are as handsome as each other at all turns, but I still tell Aegon he’s a poxy cunt, so what’s your point, exactly?” She shook her hand, dismissively, picking up a flaky pastry with custard filling.

“Well, Egg  _ is _ a poxy cunt, everytime he slithers into my bed I’m afraid of having to run to Marwyn and having Marwyn discover a new pox,” he said, wrinkling his nose.

“Don’t talk about him like that, he  _ is _ very careful,” she chastises, mildly.

“Remember when he thought his cock was going to fall out?”

“Don’t change the subject, we’re here to talk about how the  _ demure _ , pious ladies of the court who get scared by Aegon’s brashness, or just plain don’t like blonds, are piling up at the Maiden’s altar, praying that a tall, dark and handsome prince will come sweep them off their feet for a bout of passion and then get guilty and marry them.” Rhaenys smiled, looking at the way her brother slunk down with his second tart, as if trying to disappear from sight. “Don’t slouch.”

“Wasn’t slouching,” he grumbled, but sat up properly.

“Was too,” she replied, sticking out her tongue at him. “I saw Lady Laena crying at the altar of the Maiden, covered from head to toe in a northern-fashion dress, but in thick gauze, and a veil of transparent silk, praying for modesty and grace befitting of a princess, because she didn’t mean to come across so wantonly to Prince Aemon.”

“I-- I never told her that! I just meant-- We’re in public, and we barely know each other! She can’t just say she loves me!” He protested, eyes wide in horror.

“And what’s the Redwyne girl’s name again? Desirée?”

“Desmera. I’ll have you know, she kept pulling her dress strap down.” Aemon definitely slouched now.

“Well, I saw her by the Mother’s altar, praying for a chance to prove that she can be a good wife to you. She was also dressed in northern fashion, so, expect to know which ones are vying for your attentions by their manner of dress,” she warned, gleefully.

“I wish you never told me, Rhae, I’m going to die now. I was happier when I thought they were just rehearsing to get to Aegon,” he whispered, mildly horrified. “I’m but a man, with a man’s body and a man’s will, and they’re all so  _ pretty _ …”

“You do know you could just ask Aegon how he doesn’t have a brood of bastards that rivals Lord Robert’s by now, right?” She pointed out, smirking. “He would be terribly glad to help, all proud he corrupted his adorable baby brother so thoroughly.” Rhaenys paused, tapping her index finger to her lips, faking deep thoughts. “Or you can just stick to men. Loras would be delighted to be your playmate.”

“You’re awfully invested in getting me to fuck Loras, Rhae.”

“I do so wish to have Margaery for a goodsister twice over,” she mused, teasingly. “She said she’d marry any pillow-biter in the realms if it meant her brother was happy.”

“I do not wish to marry Lady Margaery. Loras could just join the Kingsguard,” he said, realized what he said, and slapped a hand over his mouth in horror.

“It’s okay, baby brother. Let it out. You know the gods won’t punish you for enjoying men; they seem to enjoy punishing women far more.”

“I just-- laying with men is  _ fun _ , just like Prince Oberyn said,” he started, carefully. “And I know laying with women  _ can be _ fun, I just don’t fancy bastards. I don’t like how they’re treated; I scarcely like how  _ I’m _ treated, and I’m not even one, people just  _ think _ I am! I’m lucky to have a family that loves me, most bastards don’t, and I do not wish that life on anyone, especially a child of mine. As amusing as bringing them all to live at the Red Keep and raise them myself,” he said, smiling brilliantly even as sarcasm dripped into his voice, “Father would not appreciate, Elia would appreciate it very little, and Prince Oberyn’s glee isn’t worth the wrath of my lady wife, if I ever do find a lady I like.”

“Unless you cannot marry her for any political reason,” Rhaenys pointed out.

“Well, then I’m  _ becoming _ Prince Oberyn’s better looking copy, and as funny as the thought is, Prince Oberyn doesn’t care one whit about what others think; I do, and a lot.”

“When in seven hells will you call uncle,  _ uncle _ ?” She breathed out, tiredly. “I will personally commission from your cousin Sansa a silk cover for your direwolf for you, if you tell Uncle Oberyn you’re thinking of becoming him, but better looking. I will truly travel to Barrowton to ask her if you do it. I want you to warn me when you do it, too, so I can have a painter nearby to immortalize the look on his face.”

“If you can make it so our cousins can see it too, so they can tease him until he’s in his deathbed, I’ll do it on Elia’s nameday feast in two moons, you need but remind me.” He stuck out his hand, smirking impishly.

“Oh, it’s a deal,” she said, shaking on it.

 

“Why did Loras just come to me, complaining about Aemon?” Margaery asked, a few days later. “He wouldn’t give me the details, but, what did the prince do?”

Rhaenys rubbed her temples, feeling the headache she just staved off crawl back.

“Aemon does like him, mind you,” she started, absolutely exhausted and it was just past the midday meal. “But if you thought Aegon was bad, with his claiming to love his every mistress and for all their number is impressive, he’s only had one at a time, Aemon is… more flexible, so to speak.”

_ “I knew it _ ,” Margaery hissed. “I knew you know more than you tell me! I thought we were sisters too!” Her friend frowned.

“Well, Aemon did make me swear secrecy on some things.  _ Only family, and even then, not everyone _ , is what he asked of me. If you can swear not to tell everyone, I can let you in some family secrets,” she replied.

“Information is the currency of the powerful, is what grandmother says, but I do not believe she meant for all knowledge to be spread around in sewing circles,” Margaery huffed, mildly offended. “I do so swear on the gods old and new, I shall not reveal Aemon’s secrets without his express permission. Is this good?”

“Hm. Very well. Aemon will tell the world at large he’s waiting for marriage. He truly is; he’s mostly a maiden when it comes to women, and he’s terrified of fathering a bastard. He does so enjoy men, but he doesn’t want to attach feelings too much, he’s rather… guarded of his own feelings. Doesn’t enjoy getting heartbroken, you see, he would feel guilty taking advantage of his own pain like Aegon does, even unwittingly. He just told Loras that it wouldn’t be love, if I remember correctly? It was the hour of the wolf when he came crying to my bed.”

“Never would’ve imagined Prince Aemon like that.”

“My brother’s rather… afraid of people leaving.” She sighed, softly. “He’s lost his mother, he nearly lost Mother, his first love was Princess Arianne and she trod all over his heart, you see. They thought they were on the same page, but… they weren’t, suffice to say.”

“Ah. Does this tie into him not thinking he’s as handsome as his princely brother?” Margaery sipped her wine, putting down her embroidery and folding her hands over it.

“Always. Arianne  _ did _ leave him for a man she described as ‘more handsome’. Aemon wasn’t a man then, just a green boy of 14, thinking himself so great for having a woman grown teach him to enjoy the female body,” she said, sadly. “Back then, Aemon was just… cute. But it stuck with him. He needs constant reinforcements that he is, indeed, going to grow yet still more handsome than Egg, and it’s… rolling a rock uphill, but the hill is the Mountains of the Moon, and the rock is a squirming snark.”

“In all honesty, though, it’s rather cute that he’s just insecure, instead of a completely, oblivious hot mess. I was starting to fear he would be like Ser Arthur, who does so like to joke the Kingsguard’s vows involve a marriage to his sword, and he is not the cheating type.”

“Oh, no, Aemon  _ is _ an oblivious mess. Ser Arthur at least knows he’s handsome; Aemon is just surprised at every turn.” Rhaenys stopped, putting her own embroidery down. “You really should ask Aegon about this. He  _ is _ the resident expert on getting the most hilarious reactions out of Aemon just by complimenting our brother.”

“Does any of it relate to being Targaryen to the bone?”

“What about those two  _ doesn’t _ circle back to that?”

“I want to be grossed out, but they do look really good together,” Margaery sighed, “if you can manage to ignore they’re brothers.”

“It’s really not that cute, especially when you walk into them and Aegon is telling Aems he should’ve been born Visenya.” Rhaenys paused, pressing two fingers into her forehead to ease the pain. “But, Loras shouldn’t be this upset. He should know Aemon, as a Prince of the Blood, has other duties than his desires, even if father is mostly letting him and Egg choose their brides.”

“Oh? How so?” Her friend inclined forward, a wicked smile on her face.

“Due to me marrying Garlan, you’re strictly out of the race, Marge, I’m sorry,” she said, a contrite look on her face. “I mean, if you could get into a huge scandal of dishonor, I don’t think Father would oppose it, but he has handpicked some maidens to put in some nice apartments near Maegor’s, and not in the Maidenvault, like the other unwed ladies. Ostensibly, they’re close to their families, but they’re also in the apartments closer to Egg’s and Aems’.”

“Ah, it’s fine, Grandmother was thinking of marrying me to Aemon’s Stark cousin. Lord Robb does look rather fetching with his red hair, icy blue eyes and a living Stark sigil, doesn’t he?” Margaery waved it off, good naturedly.

“That’s is indeed a good match.” Rhaenys picked up her embroidery anew, tilting the silk around to see where her outline was. “Father picked out future Small Council members and some houses he feels are owed closer ties to the crown. Houses Redwyne and Celtigar for master of ships, for Lord Monford has no daughter and neither does Father to offer as bride to Lord Monterys. Lord Monford has been joking that his son better give him granddaughters, so they can gift him the title before he passes away. Houses Royce of the Bloody Gate, Blackwood, Bracken, Mooton, Yronwood and Rykker have competent lords who could fill any position required, and Father does believe the Crown will need them tied closer to us, so they have daughters sent over as well.”

“I’ll put my money on my fellow Reacher, Lady Desmera, then,” Margaery said, bringing a cup of watered down Arbor Red to her lips.

“Oh? What has you so sure Desmera will win Aegon over? She’s not exactly his type.”

“Aegon? No, I mean for Ae _ mon _ , Rhae,” Margaery said, and Rhaenys raised an eyebrow at that, skeptical. “He  _ is _ rather vain about his curls, you only need to get him a little drunk to hear all about his dreams of having pretty, curly haired babes. ‘Mera has red,  _ curly _ hair. All she needs to do is realize that Aemon doesn’t respond well to more…  _ overt _ approaches, and she  _ will _ win him over, I believe.”

“Oh, that… makes sense. Lady Desmera also  _ is _ right up Aemon’s type, too, not the prettiest, but definitely the smartest. She’s also your cousin, and Lady Olenna only has nice things to say about you and her… Plus I do believe having the Queen of Thorns content with House Targaryen is always a boon,” she nodded, slightly.

“A compensation of sorts, if you will,” her friend agreed, mildly.

“If only someone would tell these girls Aemon may love his northern family and gods, but the northern style doesn’t do  _ shit _ for him…”

“Oh, if only.”

 

Aemon plastered himself to the wall, rubbing his hands over his face, exhausted. He’d barely managed to fix the mess he made with Loras (with Rhaenys’ help), and it had ended up more… animated than he expected. They were so caught up in their activities, they didn’t notice Lady Royce and Lady Mooton coming until Ser Jaime poked him with the scabbard of his sword.

They had rushed into a nearby hidden cranny, holding their breath, as the ladies interrogated Ser Jaime as to where Prince Aemon could possibly be, and almost gave themselves away when Loras’ hair started tickling his neck.

“Your hair looks a fright,” a girly voice said on his left, and his hands immediately went to make his hair more presentable, before he looked at the girl standing next to him, looking amused.

The first thing he noticed was her red hair in tight curls, flowing free in the wind. The second thing he noticed, was the simple, vine-patterned silk dress in the usual Reach style he normally saw on Lady Margaery, its drapes and folds gliding enticingly in the eastern breeze coming from Blackwater Bay. The third thing he noticed was that he already met this girl.

“Oh, Lady Desmera. Thank you, for, uh, informing me.” He stuttered. Last time he had seen Lady Desmera, her hair had been bound in braids and complicated-looking clasps, oiled and perfumed into submission; she was wearing a dornish-style dress that even he could tell was tied up wrong, and he swallowed in fear then that she was going to ask him for a private soirée in her quarters.

Right now, she looked the perfect Reach lady, her house’s most prized bounty stamped all over her dress and jewels in the vine designs that covered her. Her armbands were reminiscent of golden vines, her neck was adorned with amethysts and garnets polished round to perfection and gathered as if a grape bunch was laid out on her neck, the burnished copper clasps of her dress embossed with grapes. She looked the part of the decadent nobility of the Reach, but no more so than any other Reacher. Plus, she hasn’t done a thing now to suggest she might want him to bed her while a maid awaits to tell the king.

All in all, it was… refreshing.

“I shall not tell anyone of your grace looking thoroughly debauched, if,” she said, and Aemon braced himself for the proposition he was sure he wouldn’t like, “my prince graces me with a walk through the Godswoods.”

Well,  _ that _ was unexpected.

“I… Well, that is fair, my lady,” he replied, awkwardly. He offered an arm to her, and she took it as if he was but one of her brothers or cousins, which calmed him down immensely. “If you don’t mind me asking, Lady Desmera, what brought the Godswoods to your interest?”

“It is well known that my prince likes to hide from our attentions at the Godswoods. I would merely like to know what drives your grace there, besides the fact no one else goes in.”

Her answer surprised him, never having expected someone to be so bold about his avoidant habits towards the ladies. Aemon could only cringe inside, thinking of the doubtlessly endless rumours about his proclivities and preferences that were going about.

“The Godswoods is not a Sept, Lady Desmera. Anyone can go in and do as they please, as long as it pleases the gods. Egg-- Prince Aegon and I used to come here to play with Princess Daenerys, because so much of the staff has this erroneous idea that the old gods take offense at children playing in their woods.” He paused, looking at the pines and cedars fondly. “If your gods disapprove of childish glee, either there’s something wrong with your gods or with your priests.”

The lady went quiet for a bit, seeming to only take in the wild beauty of the holy place they’ve entered, eyes fleeting from the rose bushes to the grapevines, obvious additions from her family on both sides as gifts celebrating the planting of the late Princess Lyanna’s godswoods to Northern standards. There were more northern additions too, like ironwoods from house Forrester, and a marble fountain in the shape of fishes from house Manderly, but all in all, it was beginning to lose the carefully manicured look that it had when Aemon was born, losing itself to the wildness and half-hearted attempts of the gardeners to tame the plants at least off the paths, but it still retained a rather southern influence.

“So, do you come into the Godswoods to sacrifice pets and have intercourse with men?” She drawled, emotionless, and Aemon had to look at her to see the small smile on her face that told him it was really but a jape.

“Sacrificing dogs to gods that once received human entrails seem kind of a step down, don’t you think?” He shot back, smiling brilliantly. “Besides, a bed or a haystack will always be more comfortable than a forest floor.”

“I do believe so, my prince,” she said, then blushed brilliantly. “About the sacrifices, not places to… fumble about. I wouldn’t know.”

“Well, it’s always good knowledge, especially about what the sharp tongues of the Red Keep will start spreading around after this walk, my lady,” he said, nodding.

“Grandmother does say that there is no such thing as bad knowledge, only misuses of it,” she agreed, still blushing.

“Lady Olenna scares me more than the Heart Tree of Winterfell. Old Nan says it’s because old people are closer to the gods than the young ones, and both her and Lady Olenna make me believe it.”

“I shall convey your feelings to Grandmother, though I dare say she will call you the smarter one of your siblings,” Lady Desmera laughed, and Aemon thought it was such a nice laugh. He never knew a Redwyne with a bad sounding laugh; even Lady Olenna, in the rare occasion she deigned to find more than depreciative amusement in something, laughed like a revelry of drunk people, uninhibited and purer in its joy for it.

“Oh, I know, she has said it to my face and Aegon’s before; she’s under the impression Egg’s a complete buffoon, but he’s just a really good mummer. As soon as she left, Aegon slumped on my lap, mumming being so exhausted, but he couldn’t stop his hands from shaking; he was terrified too,” he laughed at the memory, and unbidden, his mind went to what happened  _ after _ , with Aegon claiming he needed his little brother to help him unwind from a stressful encounter while his hands were everywhere like a kraken’s.

“It  _ is _ very peaceful here, though. I can see why my prince would hide here; we’re still in the Red Keep, but the atmosphere seems to be of another place already.” She was smiling, at Aemon, as they approached the young heart tree. “Oh, it looks like it’s brooding,” Lady Desmera gleefully informed him, and he side-eyed her.

“Please do not make the joke I can see you thought up, I can assure you, it’s been made before.”

“What, that it looks a bit like the King when the mood strikes him?”

He paused in his stroll, then turned to look at her.

“Well, not in those words; Aegon usually says it looks like me.”

“You’re the King’s son,” she pointed out, amusedly, “so it stands to reason that it looks like you, too. Perhaps even more, considering the Old Gods are so closely tied to the Starks here in the South.”

Aemon hung his head low, sighing in a defeated way.

“That was a good setup for this, my lady, I’ll give you points for not being obvious.”

“A compliment, I’m sure,” she waved her hand daintily, smiling, and Aemon was caught in the weird feeling of wanting to kiss her. The crab sculpted in the fountain seemed to be mocking him, with its raised pincers, perched on the side of the root of a sculpted reed.

He shook himself, but smiled. It was likely a remnant from his romp with Loras. He also tried to shake off the feeling she was using him until Aegon or someone better came along; he didn’t know Lady Desmera well enough to make these assumptions, not like he knew Arianne and chose to ignore it.

  
  


He found it easy to talk to Lady Desmera. They had a great deal in differences, but one in common; their curiosity always got the best of them as they talked about things they’ve seen and lived.

Desmera had lived most of her life in and out of harbors, hearing sailors talk and balancing on boats as she followed her father, Lord Paxter, into ships and dromonds and galleys to supervise the trade income of her family’s trading fleet. Aemon himself had spent more time on the back of a horse, between Dorne, the North and the Crownlands, than he cared to admit. They knew nothing about the other’s main travel means, and, Aemon decided, that must’ve been most of the draw they had towards each other, Desmera teasing him when he mistook a galley for a longship, and him teasing her back when she didn’t know the difference between a sand steed and a reacher destrier.

“They look the same!”, they argue at each other, laughing.

“Like you and your family, I’d presume,” they’d shoot back, shaking their heads in disbelief.

It was nice, Aemon thought, to have someone that wasn’t Rhaenys to talk to, someone that he was mostly sure on their intentions at the very least; Desmera had not once tried to dissuade him of the idea she was befriending him because she wanted to become a princess, and he could at least appreciate her honesty. He never fared very well on the court’s favored game.

  
  


“Teach me how to ride,” she asked, one day, as Aemon was readying himself and his horse for a pleasure ride outside the city.

Jaime looked at him as he looked at Jaime and then shrugged, nodding wordlessly at the men in Redwyne livery.

“I thought proper ladies rode in wheelhouses,” he said, teasingly, carefully.

“I’ve heard you to be a wonderful rider, from Margaery, and I do not believe a quality you seek in a wife would be ‘unable to at least hold her own on horseback’,” Desmera replied, haughtily. “I’ll have you know, the other girls think I’m leading this race, and I’m not about to fall off the horse,” she smiled then, impishly, and Aemon blushed brilliantly at the million innuendos he could hear.

“She has a point, my prince,” Jaime said, amused, ignoring the glare Aemon sent his way and just smiling back.

“If so,” he started, pushing down on his embarrassment, “it is only fair you teach me to sail, my lady.”

“I only know how to sail a small pleasure sailboat in the Mander, but if it pleases your grace, I shall enjoy watching you fall from the boat seasick, my prince,” she quipped back, curtsying, and he raised an eyebrow. “You admitted to only having travelled by horse so far, Prince Aemon, you’re bound to get seasick even in as calm waters as the Mander’s.”

“Should I saddle a palfrey for my lady?” a Redwyne guard asked, politely.

“No, ser, today we are taking these horses to ride in the outskirts of the city to get them used to the presence of Prince Aemon’s direwolf,” Ser Jaime said, and Desmera’s smile faltered. “However, if you’d supply us with the palfrey, we should get her used to Ghost as well, and I believe my prince should be glad to teach the Lady Desmera by next week?”

She perked up again, and Aemon thought she was just about to ignore propriety, their statuses, the expectations of their positions and the wishes of family, and kiss him. He watched her, warily, as she took a deep breath, and bit her lip to rein in her slightly undignified smile.

“We are supposed to be meeting grandmother and the seamstresses for Princess Rhaenys’ marriage gowns, then, but I will see what can be arranged,” she curtsied, tilting her head to one side adorably, and, without waiting for a dismissal, ran off back into the Keep, pausing only to pet Ghost and send him on his way as if he was but a mere hound, and not a direwolf pup the size of one. Her guards apologized on her behalf and followed, one of them staying behind to lead the palfrey in their ride.

“The Reach is truly  _ reaching _ out, isn’t it,” Ser Jaime commented, idly. “Princess Rhae marrying the Tyrell heir, the Redwynes aiming at the Prince of Summerhall, and rumor has it that Lord Hightower told his granddaughter, what’s her name again?”

“Alyssa.”

“Yes, rumor has it the old man told Lady Alyssa to secure her crown by any means necessary, so I hope your brother can keep it in his pants; I’ve seen the girl, and she  _ is _ the very picture of Aegon’s type.”

“The gods only know if my brother will wise up to something for once,” Aemon responded, sadly. “Hopefully, he’ll marry someone from the Stormlands, or the Vale. I would like Lady Myranda as a goodsister. Someone should make sure the story that her husband fucked her to his death gets to Egg’s ears, he’d love that kind of reputation on his wife and himself,” he mused, hopping on his horse and gripping the reins tight, whistling to call Ghost forward.

“Ah yes, Aegon the Unworthy reborn, but with a Dragonknight he actually likes. What a way to go down in history. ‘King Aegon VI chose his lady wife based on reported sexual prowess. Likely he did not enjoy bedding maidens, following in the footsteps of his unlamented forebear and his infamous uncle, the Red Viper.’” Jaime intoned, in his best imitation of his younger brother.

“Oh, shove it, Ser Jaime,” Aemon replied, annoyedly. “I will never be a knight, everyone knows it.”

“I am entirely charmed that  _ that _ is what bothers you, not the implications that practically the entire royal guard knows you and your brother do…  _ things _ in your bedrooms, my prince,” the man replied, amused.

“Aegon’s been all but yelling it to the winds, might as well own it, don’t you think,” he said, resigned. “Plus, no matter what people think or say, at the end of the day, I’m still the Prince of Summerhall, Egg is still Prince of Dragonstone, they still owe us respect even if it’s lip service.”

“I was not informed Prince Aegon had dyed his hair again,” Ser Jaime joked, shaking his head.

“Like he would ever dye his hair black. He’s been wanting to dye it green, until he saw Lady Wylla Manderly’s hair and now he’s upset someone stole his thunder.”

“Our future king, being upstaged by a fifteen year old girl and hating every second of it. Is he still moping about it?”

“He will be moping until his Tyroshi friend comes back with the latest trends in Essos,” Aemon said, more than a little amused remembering the face his brother pulled every time he saw Lady Wylla.

 

His father summoned him to his solar a day before he was set to take Lady Desmera and (to his dismay) a retinue of her friends out in the Kingswoods, and while the ladies were purported to be hawking, Lady Desmera would be learning how to ride, with only three Redwyne guards and Ser Jaime’s detachment of Royal Guards. He could already feel what the conversation would be about; he  _ has _ ears to listen every unsavory rumour going on about him and the lady.

“Sit down, Aems,” his father, the King, said, and it was already not starting how he imagined it would. “Would you like something to drink?”

His father was sitting by the large balcony that overlooked the inner yard of the Holdfast, where his brother made a fool of himself to amuse their sister and her court of ladies. There seemed to be a chair ready for him, and Ser Barristan stood by the side, sitting on a chair of his own, frowning at a book on knitting of all things, needles at the side as he studied a pattern. He had passed Ser Oswell on his way in, so he knew his father didn’t have Ser Barristan distracted in their fragile moment.

_ (“Why knitting?” he remembered asking the elderly knight, who smiled at him kindly. _

_ “It came to me one day, that you’re growing up without a grandmother, and, as Ser Jaime likes to remind me, once upon a time you three called me Ser Grandpa. It is the duty of a grandfather to dote upon their grandchildren, and I figured socks and scarves were the least I could do for you,” Ser Barristan had answered, kindly, and Aemon realized then that the old knight truly was a grandfather, more than Aerys II could ever be.) _

“Uh. I don’t even know why I’m here, father,” he said, uncertain.

“Hmm. Can’t a father want to enjoy some time with his children?” His father picked the wine goblet on the side table, smiling ever so slightly.

“Usually when you want that, you call for the  _ entire _ family. Am I in trouble?”

King Rhaegar smiled in full now, shaking his head. Ser Barristan seemed satisfied with his understanding of the pattern, as his needles clacked an even rhythm once more.

“No, you’re not in trouble, Aemon. Not  _ yet _ ,” he added, probably just to keep Aemon on his toes. “Tell me, you’ve been spending quite a big amount of time with Lady Desmera, haven’t you?”

He blushed brilliantly, the red showing very clear and bright on his pale face, and Aemon thought death was preferable than discussing his life with his father without his siblings as buffer.

“Lady Desmera is kind, as smart as expected of a granddaughter of Lady Olenna, and at least to me, she’s honest and speaks her mind,” he said, trying not to trip over his tongue and admit something he’d rather not in front of his father.

“She has very pretty,  _ curly _ hair, too,” his father teased, and Aemon fought the will to hide his face in his hands. He was never going to live down anything he’s ever done while slightly drunk. His family at least has the decency of not mentioning anything he’s done while full on drunk, though Rhaenys tells him he’s a rather sad drunk.

“She does,” he replied, because there was no use to pretend that wasn’t his favorite part of her. “She also said that when we take Rhae to Highgarden, she will teach me to sail, because she asked me to teach her to ride.”

“I’m assuming she is not at all scared by the direwolf.”

“She thinks Ghost is cute. I don’t think it has sunk in for her he’s but a pup yet.” He smiled a real smile then, remembering the day his lord uncle arrived with his gift of a snow white albino wolf, that his cousin Brandon had found a little ways away from the dead mother, if only because his cousin Robb’s one was in his arms and ran away to find their wayward brother.

“Tell me, Aems,” his father started, with only a mild wince as Aegon fell from his perch on the birch tree and Rhaenys was set to laugh herself hoarse long before she ever got up to help her brother. “After Rhaenys’ wedding, the whole kingdom’s eyes will turn to Aegon and you, and while Aegon thrives on being court gossip, I do not believe you enjoy having all these rumours about you, even if your brother is ecstatic at having finally brought you to his side.”

“I hate them, actually, but what can I do? I can’t stop the courtiers from gossiping, I’d have an easier time fanning the Wall down.”

His father let out a soft laugh at that, but made no attempt to deny it.

“You know the reason we brought in so many ladies to attend your sister wasn’t because she particularly needed it.” It wasn’t a question.

“Yes. Rhae told us.”

“What do you think of them?”

Aemon knew this question was coming, ever since Rhaenys sat him and his brother down to tell them about the girls their father had chosen as likely candidates for their wives. It didn’t make him any more prepared to answer it, even considering what he knew of politics (even if said girls were likely safe candidates), and much less how his mind kept going to Lady Desmera, Loras and his brother.

“Lady Myranda Royce would be a good, fair queen that could keep Egg in line,” he said, sidestepping what his father truly asked.

“Aegon has told me as much, but I heard you and Rhaenys in his words. Give me his words, since you three are of a mind in this.”

_ Well, shit, sorry, big brother. _

“He likes the story Lady Myranda killed her husband by bedding him too hard,” he blurted out, closing his eyes, fully aware of the spreading flush on his face.

“It’s a good clout to have with how some of the future lords are, especially your aunt’s brother,” his father said, surprising Aemon. “I do approve of Lady Myranda as a person, too. I doubt your brother would be half as interested in her as he is if you and Rhaenys hadn’t told him that story too. I shall have words with your sister later as well; since you two are responsible for this, you two should also make sure your brother spends time with the lady he requested.”

“Egg will happily do so, but I do believe you meant chaperoned, by daylight, father.”

“That I do. As I shall ask you do as well, for your little strolls through the Godswoods with Lady Desmera, son, especially if you do not mean to marry her.”

Aemon’s face went redder still; no matter how he tries to derail his father, it’s clear King Rhaegar is not having it.

“It’s-- I--,” he tried to say, to come up with an excuse. His father but smiled encouragingly. “I know I’ll have to marry one day. And I do like Lady Desmera. But… It’s stupid, and not true, and certainly wouldn’t get any better if I asked to marry after Aegon, but my head keeps telling me that she doesn’t truly likes me, for me, but for my title and only that. It doesn’t matter that, if she only wanted my title, she wouldn’t make an effort to find treats for Ghost. None of that matter, because the second I get too happy about seeing her, even if we do not spend any time together, my head starts whispering things to me, and it scares me.”

“Have you talked to your mother about this? I’m sure she’ll be of far more help than me with this,” his father said, kindly, a sad look in his face.

“What good would it be to talk to a statue in Winterfell’s crypts?” he asked, dumbfounded.

“So, these thoughts, do they also tell you Elia isn’t your mother?”

Aemon stopped whatever rant he was gearing up to, and sat back, ashamed, and nodding.

“Aemon, listen to me,” his father said, leaning in, “I loved Lyanna. I did. But she did not live to love you, unfortunately. Elia did. Elia loved you the moment she saw you, as frail and sickly as you had been, and strongarmed her own brother to care for you, for she did not trust Pycelle. She fed you from her own breast like she did Aegon because she felt it was all she could do while Prince Oberyn made sure you didn’t follow your mother. She held you when you had nightmares, she stood vigil when you got sick, and she chastised you when you needed it. Was she not a mother to you in everything but birth?”

“Yes.”

“Lyanna gave her life to give you yours, and Elia raised you, and cared for you. She birthed your siblings. She loves you as much as them. Talk to her. She  _ is _ your mother too, despite what the whispering at court would have you believe.” He sighed. “You’ve never reacted like that before. Is it the attentions from the ladies and the court that’s upsetting you and starting this again?”

“I was fine. I was doing fine, father,” Aemon started, slowly, trying to keep his emotions in check. 

“I believe you, son.”

“It’s just… some of these ladies decided that, because I spent a lot of my time in Dorne, that I must like being openly flirted with and propositioned and… it reminded me of Arianne. And then I convinced myself that they weren’t truly after me, as a person; they must’ve been after Aegon, and I’m but a cheap consolation prize. Don’t worry,” he added, hastily, when his father frowned, “I do not feel like that so much now, but… it’s hard,” he finished, lamely.

“Talk to your mother. She’ll be of more help than me, Aems,” his father repeated, smiling sadly. “In the meantime, is it safe to conclude that Lady Desmera holds your favor should her father probe about a possibility of a betrothal?”

“I’d like more time to really know her, but I guess there would be no harm to hint positively, but as vaguely as possible?,” he suggested. “Maybe along the lines of, ‘it is not out of the realm of possibility, but we should take into consideration the marriage of rhaenys to lord tyrell’s son’? Make Lord Paxter squirm a little.”

“He’s already squirming about that. Your uncle has been asking about it, too,” hos father commented. Aemon blanched slightly. “Not asking for his daughters chances, mind you, but about approving of your betrothal in conforming with your mother’s wishes should you choose your bride outside the North.”

“Lord Paxter has the merchant fleet to greatly benefit the North this coming winter should he agree that the betrothal terms between Lady Desmera and I comes with increased food dealings with the North, or merely just the builders to remake the meager northern fleet so they can rid the Sunset Sea of reavers from the Neck up themselves and guarantee the safety of said dealings,” Aemon conceded. “If I have your permission, father, I shall talk with… mother.”

King Rhaegar smiled at him, merely nodding. He only spoke when Aemon was nearing the door, hand on the knob.

“Oh, Aemon? Do inform me when exactly do you plan on telling Oberyn you want to be a better looking him, I wish to witness it as well.”

“At mother’s birthday feast, father,” he answered, hiding an impish smile behind a fist.

  
  


He hesitated, when he reached Elia’s doors. It wasn’t an overlong walk, and he didn’t feel ready to go and talk to his stepmother. Not that the frail woman ever intimidated him; she has always been kind and understanding, loving even, to him, and he knew that she thought of him as her son in all but blood. But being here, at her door, to talk to her about things that bother him… it made him queasy.

“Just knock,” Ser Jaime said, softly.

“As an orphan to another, Ser Jaime. Would you knock without feeling like a burden?” He asked, looking at the doorknob.

“Our situations differ, my prince. I’ve met my mother, you haven’t. But if a woman came along when I was a child and told me she’d like to be my mother, I’d like to believe I would.”

As Aemon chickened out, Ser Jaime grabbed his hand and banged it three times on the solid oak doors of Queen Elia’s chambers. He looked at his Kingsguard with a betrayed look on his face.

“It’s for your own good, your grace,” the knight said, smiling smugly.

Before Aemon could answer with something suitably offended, the door opened and he was facing Prince Lewyn, Queen Elia’s Kingsguard and uncle, who had an expression he couldn’t exactly read, and not even because he felt out of practice reading people with all the avoiding he was doing; Prince Lewyn had one of those faces where it was difficult to tell what he was thinking.

“I-- I wanted to talk to Queen Elia, if it’s convenient?”

Prince Lewyn just stared at him for a second, like he was looking into his very soul, before backing out a little, and announcing his entrance, though Aemon wouldn’t call it the most proper of announcings he’s ever seen in his life, even considering what he knows of Dornish customs.

“Elia, your stray kid is here to see you,” he said, and Aemon fought the urge to hide behind Ser Jaime’s cape like he did when he was little. Prince Lewyn’s face was always impassive except when he saw Aegon, and rarely when he looked at Rhaenys. He didn’t show as much emotion towards him as he did with his nephew and niece.

Elia was sitting by the window as usual, a shawl over her legs. The Queen wasn’t yet as afflicted by gout as her older brother, but still it took a toll on her health that it hadn’t when Prince Doran was her age. It pained Aemon to see her like that, almost isolated from court except from her dornish handmaidens; his stepmother deserved better.

“Aems! What a surprise; one could think you’ve forgotten you had a mother,” she joked, smiling widely at him, and he couldn’t help but smile contritely back.

“I’ve been busy; Uncle Ned gifted me a direwolf pup that needs training, and then the horses needed retraining--”

“And he’s been running from the girls King Rhaegar chose as eligible candidates for princesses,” Ser Jaime finished for him, amusedly.

“Ah, yes, girls are very scary,” Prince Lewyn scoffed from his corner, arms crossed.

“Hush, Uncle, I’m sure Aemon has his reasons, don’t you, sweetheart? He’s never seemed afraid of girls before, just look at how well he gets on with Rhae and her friend Lady Margaery. What’s on your head, love?” She asked, smiling at him, gesturing for him to sit on the couch by her chair in the balcony.

“I… Father wanted my answer regarding the girls he chose for Egg and I. Because of, uh. Because of rumours going around that have been suggesting I dishonored one of them.” He shifted, uncomfortably, looking at his hands.

_ “Northeners,” _ Elia scoffed, snorting. “They’ll say a girl’s maidenhead makes no matter because what they want is the allegiance the marriage brings, and then proceed to make a huge fuss about it. Pay them no mind, sweetheart, you know what you did and didn’t do.”

“It helps that Rhae’s willing to beat some sense into my head,” he offered, meekly. “It’s just… Father sent me to talk to you, but… It’s stupid, and all in my head, I shouldn’t bother you with these things…”

Elia motioned for her uncle to wheel her a little closer to Aemon, and put a hand on one of his, light and caring.

“Aems. Do you remember what the maesters said? The brains are there, in your head. And they figure we think with that. If the head is where we make up our reality, if it’s in your head it’s real enough. You can always talk to me, you’re my son too.”

He choked up on his words a little, emotions getting the best of his faculties, and he just sat there for a while, Elia’s hands holding his, her strength sapped by the gout but nothing could ever smother her warmth. Aemon took a deep breath before talking.

“It’s-- I’m a Prince. I chose not to be a knight in deference to my mother’s gods, but  _ I could _ . I know I’m not doing anything wrong, spending time with Lady Desmera. She  _ asked _ to walk in the Godswoods, and it’s the courtiers’ own faults for avoiding those paths if they feel the need to speculate what we do in there. We’re going riding tomorrow and the ladies are going hawking, and if rumors start because Lady Desmera asked me to teach her, I’ll be worried about the court’s intelligence, because what will we do with an audience?” He took another, steadying breath.

“You’re very worried about what people think you’re doing with this Lady Desmera, Aems,” Elia commented, airily, amused even.

“I-- She-- She’s nice. And pretty. And smart. She-- She’s nice,” he finished, lamely.

“Mmhmm,” Elia agreed, smiling. “I’m sure she is. I take it you like her, then.”

“I-- do. I like her. But,” he paused not sure where to go from there. “I told father it’s stupid, because it is silly and not grounded in anything even remotely related to reality, in truth.”

Queen Elia looked at him kindly, squeezing his hand softly.

“It’s not stupid if it’s hurting you.”

“You’ve been told about… about what happened in Dorne, right?” he asked, hoping he wouldn’t have to spell it out; even after two years, it still hurt to think about it, and thankfully no one had mentioned it when he begged their father to stay in Winterfell when the invite for Princess Arianne’s marriage came.

“Yes, and I’ve had words with my niece,” Elia said, sternly. She didn’t elaborate, though, and Aemon was glad that she respected his wish to remain vague about it.

“It’s just. Lady Desmera had not given me any indications she’s just waiting to get into my brother’s sights, but I… I keep waiting for her to just… come up to me and say, I’m sorry but your brother has finally noticed me, and he’s a much better match. It’s  _ stupid _ , and I know it won’t happen because Lady Desmera had  _ told me as much _ , but… She’s just so  _ nice _ and I keep feeling like I’m gonna wake up and none of this will have happened.”

“Isn’t it nicer like that?” Elia asked, and Aemon looked at her, not having noticed his eyes had dropped to their hands on his knees. She had a wistful look, almost longing, on her face, and for a moment she looked like she did before the pains of gout took their toll on her. “That way, you enjoy more ever moment you can get. Every smile, every kiss, you treasure more because it’s so fragile.” When she stopped talking, Elia looked as diaphanous as the feelings she described.

“I think it’s horrible. I don’t… It shouldn’t be like that.” Aemon frowned. “Love should--” he started, and then the word he said caught up with him, and suddenly he couldn’t get the next words out of his throat. He gaped a while like a fish out of water, before deciding to close his mouth shut.

“Ah, so you  _ love _ Lady Desmera, huh…” Elia teased, gently. Everything about his stepmother was loving and gentle towards her children, and Aemon could appreciate it and feel blessed that he was included in that category.

“I… I suppose I do, a little.”

“You think it’s too soon, though. That you shouldn’t be feeling these feelings just yet,” she guessed, and she was right; he nodded in agreement, too embarrassed to put into words again. “Feelings don’t have a minimum time to occur, my love. Just as I knew I loved you like my own when I first saw you, screaming in your uncle’s arms, you can also know you love Lady Desmera after what? Two weeks of near daily contact? You have an idea of who she is by now, Aems, and that usually is enough for the heart.”

“How did you know you loved father?” he asked, looking into his hands again, so softly he himself almost missed; he’ll never know how Elia heard it well enough to answer.

“I don’t,” she answered, bluntly, which caused Aemon’s head to snap up in surprise. “Don’t look so shocked, Aemon, we both know most noble marriages don’t happen because the parties love each other. King Aerys was paranoid about Dorne, and wished us tied closer to the throne, so he decreed I should marry Rhaegar. I like your father well enough, I birthed him two children to prove it, but I never loved your father as such. Not like we loved your mother, anyway.”

In his sixteen years of age, he had never heard his father and stepmother mention his birth mother in any way that wasn’t to acknowledge his existence or in placating letters North. Just now, hearing Elia say that both his parents loved his mother was… shocking, and at a deeper level, a bit relieving, like a piece of a puzzle slotting into place,  _ finally, _ after years of not knowing where things fit inside of him.

“You… you did?”

“Of course we did. It  _ was _ my idea to crown our little lady knight, after all.” She sighed, as if the memory pained her, and Aemon guessed that in a way, it did. “She was as old as you are, now, and so lively. I… I wish I were there, for her. Wish I had sent Oberyn there, at the very least. Your mother didn’t want to leave the North, and their old Maester was upset at her for tearing his brilliant plans aground. As it is, we are lucky your grandfather had enough sense to give the meddling rat some Northern justice when he saw what the man did to your mother.”

Aemon was on the edge of his seat, completely enthralled by the story. He had never heard it before, and whether it be because Elia thought him old enough now that he was a man grown, or because she was tired of keeping secrets, he might never know, but he was going to take any smidge of knowledge about the fate of Lyanna Stark, and he would treasure it just as he did all the times he climbed into Elia’s bed after a nightmare and the Princess of Dorne had comforted him, all the times his mother by upbringing had held him close after a scraped knee.

“Never doubt that, just as we love you as our son by flesh and blood, we both loved your mother, young and brash as she was. We wouldn’t have changed a thing, if only because we know that we’d never meet her had Maester Walys not tried his hands at manipulating her father into playing the game,” she said, and Aemon thought she might say something else, but she stayed silent, grieving still after all those years.

“I’m glad I’m your son, Elia,” he said, then, because what else could he say? He just wanted to see her smile after all the pain she was willing to bare out to him. “I’m happy to call you my mother.”

She smiled then, watery but glowing in happiness.

“Don’t tell Egg, but you’re my favorite, quiet son,” she joked.

“I’m your only quiet son,” he whispered back, smiling, just as he did when he was a toddler with barely a grasp with words, let alone jokes.  



	32. Jon Snow/multiple; reflected image pt2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Summary: part 2/? of chapter 31, they get stormed in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> LISTEN, I DIDN'T MEAN FOR THIS TO GET THIS HUGE I THOUGHT I COULD CONTROL IT, but clearly i cannot. forgive me yall. have part 2, i'll. try to come back with part 3 and hopefully part 4 will be the last.

They rode out early that day, Ghost bounding at the heels of the horses, and Lady Desmera grumbling at having to stay in the wheelhouse for now. Two pack horses carried the hawks and the food for the ladies’ picnic, though by the way Ser Jaime spoke of the raspberry pastries, he figured the men would be joining them as well. Aemon knew Lady Desmera would all but drag him to the meal.

It was by pure luck that the weather had held; the castellan at Dragonstone had sent word of a storm brewing in the Narrow Sea, and Prince Doran had sent reports of a typhoon forming in the western coast of Dorne, heading into Shipbreaker Bay. Both storm and typhoon had yet to reach the Crownlands, and it hadn’t rained in a week, which left the soil by the Kingswoods dry and firm, a prime environs for a first-time rider, Aemon thought to himself. 

Ghost whined as they reached the outskirts of the forest and the prince looked in the direction his wolf was pointing. Rainclouds were gathering in the east and southeast.

“Ser Jaime,” he called, “don’t unpack anything unnecessary.”

His Kingsguard looked up, and took a deep breath. He didn’t think Ser Jaime could smell the rain in the air yet, but with the amount of rain coming and the strength of the typhoon the Dornish maesters guessed at, it wasn’t out of the realm of reality that they’d be smelling it soon.

“I trust my prince knows the way to the hunting cottage, in case the storm outruns us?” he asked, frowning.

“I won’t melt if I’m hit by a little rain,” he complained, as they unmounted, waiting for the ladies to climb out of the wheelhouse.

“Better safe than sorry; Queen Elia would have my head if you came down with the flu on my watch, and I’d give her my sword,” the knight said, seriously.

“I haven’t been sick in ten years!” he complained.

“There’s always a first time for anything, including first time being sick in ten years,” the man mused, thoughful.

“Yes, I know where the hunting cottage is, you can see its boundary walls from here,” Aemon finally answered, pointing at a stony sheep wall that served as marker for the limits of the cottage’s property.

“Brilliant,” Ser Jaime said, then, pointing at the ladies’ wheelhouse. “Your student is coming, your grace.”

It was clear then that Aemon was dealing with a complete rookie, or Lady Desmera thought riding with a dress was for beginners. It might’ve been just that the lady didn’t own riding leathers, he added, thinking, as she finally spotted him and smiled beautifully. He could still hear his mother’s words in his head, and they made him blush, even as he tried to stomp out the drunken feeling of unmitigated happiness he felt whenever Lady Desmera smiled at him.

_ Even if Elia says it’s alright to already be in love, I can’t stop but think it’s too soon _ .

“My prince,” she curtsied in greeting, and when her skirts lifted from the grass he saw that at the very least, she was wearing boots. “Thank you for spending your time teaching me.”

“Think nothing of it, my lady,” he replied, almost mechanically like a palace gate being opened by the winches.

“Is everything alright, your grace?” she asked, concerned. “You sound a little under the weather.”

_ I am trying not to sound like a fool, _ he thought but didn’t say it.

“Just worried about the storm on the horizon, my lady, nothing more,” he said instead, shaking his head to clear his thoughts as much as it was to deny any other things he might be feeling besides.

“Hmm, well, that storm is slowing down, but it still looks like it’ll hit the coast soon. If it’s already in Shipbreaker Bay, it’ll be in Blackwater Bay in half a day,” she mused, and Aemon was once again struck that she knew these things, if only because they affected her family’s fleet. “Oh, the wind picked up, it might be less than I thought. Should we start?”

“I don’t think riding in a dress would be comfortable,” he said, as his eyes locked with Lord Loras’, and he remembered that, oh, yes, he was her cousin, and her brothers were back at the Arbor.

_ We both loved your mother _ , Elia’s words ringed in his head, and he wondered if his mother loved them both back, if that’s where he got it.

“I’m not wearing just a dress, your grace,'' she said, lifting her skirts and it was almost like watching a joust where the lances broke and splinters flew everywhere, before his mind caught up with his eyes and he noticed she wasn’t, indeed, showing him her bare legs and smallclothes. “I stole one of Loras’ old riding pants.”

“That’s not an old pair of pants, Desmera, those are my  _ good _ riding pants,” her cousin grumbled, displeased. Aemon could relate; being the shorter of the two brothers, whenever Rhaenys wanted to borrow some ‘boy’ clothes to give the slip on her guards (not on Ser Oswell, who would actively encourage her shenanigans), she always chose his worn leathers, which by virtue of being worn, were softer on the skin and fit better and moved more fluidly than his  _ new _ , stiff leathers.

“Would you let your dearest cousin have leather burns when she’s not even used to sitting on a horse?” she asked, miming being horrified, to which Lord Loras just rolled his eyes.

“I would rather my dearest cousin have thought things through while she had a seamstress with her two days ago.”

“Two days are not a decent amount of time to get decent riding leathers done and you know it, Loras.”

He smiled as they bickered; at least that was familiar territory to him.

“You could’ve gone to Rhaenys, the gods know she has outright stolen more than her fair share of riding leathers from Egg and I,” he said, and then paused, willing the ground to open up beneath him and swallow him whole like the Doom did to Valyria; he just implied lady Desmera should’ve worn his old clothes and can’t take it back, nor deny he did so, as there were witnesses. Perhaps he ought to just tell his father to send a raven to Paxter Redwyne announcing the betrothal. It would be highly unorthodox, having the second son marry before the heir, but if it spared him more embarrassments like this, Aemon would take it gladly.

“Maybe I should,” Lady Desmera said, as red as him, but smiling shyly still, and gods be good, Loras was looking at them funny. Aemon had never wanted for a storm to roll in faster.

“I suggest we start, my prince, before you request a shovel to dig yourself a nice, cozy hole,” Ser Jaime whispered, amused.

Aemon nodded and did as he was told. He was good at that; lots of practice between a bossy older brother and a queenly older sister. (It really ought to be the other way around, he thought, sometimes.)

Desmera wasn’t a horrible student. She had some sense of balance, as should anyone boasting of sea experience, in Aemon’s opinion, and had the most difficulty only with working the reins, as it felt inverted to her compared to a boat’s steering.

“It’s best if you had her use the reins with both hands, my prince,” Loras suggested then, “one handed hold is, indeed, counter-intuitive to the steering of any vessel. Let her get the handle of pulling with the side she wants to go first.”

Balancing on his stirrups, Aemon leaned to help Lady Desmera with her reins’ new handling, and barely had the time to catch the lady when, without the other hand that was apparently balancing her weight on a saddle that wasn’t even a proper sidesaddle.

“My lady, if you’re using a regular saddle, you want to ride astride,” he corrected her, trying not to be annoyed. She was a beginner, he told himself.

“My father’s servants did not have the time to find a sidesaddle, my prince,” she said, apologetic, and blushing madly, looking between the other girls, who were gossiping, and his balancing arm on her waist. Aemon blushed at it too, but if he let go, Lady Desmera would fall on the ground, and he found the latter to be the worst of the two options. “I… Lady Cersei says that riding astride is for wanton whores,” she admitted.

“Lady Cersei says a lot of things,” Aemon agreed, bitter. “She’s also under the impression that my father cheated on Elia to have me, which is just plain untrue, if one ever bothers to ask them,” he whispered, not wanting other people to hear. Lady Desmera’s eyes went wide, as did Loras’. “Lady Cersei is a bitter woman who’s unhappy with her lot in life because she’s under the impression she deserved so much more. No offense, Ser Jaime,” he addressed his Kingsguard.

“None taken, my prince, you have said nothing but the truth.”

“Just ride astride, Lady Desmera. You  _ are _ wearing riding leathers under your dress, so it wouldn’t be improper, nor would you shame yourself. My cousins ride astride, and I believe you’ve met Lady Sansa by now?” he asked, smiling.

“The most riverlander northerner I’ve ever seen,” she replied, pointedly. “Hard to imagine she’s betrothed to a man who lives in a castle decorated with the bones of her ancestors.” She held onto his jerkin then, passing her leg over the pommel to fit her foot in the other stirrup, and pulling her satiny dress up, then letting it fall more naturally around her. “You’re right, my prince, this way does feel better,” she said, sheepishly.

“Just ask to borrow one of Rhae’s next time, I doubt she’ll begrudge you that favor.”  _ Not if she gets wind you’re to be her future goodsister _ , he thought, mortified. Lady Desmera would ask Rhae, and she would never let him live it down. “But yes, Sansa, in the Dreadfort? It’s about the oddest thing I’ve heard this past week.”

A cold breeze went past them, and while Loras and Lady Desmera shivered a little, Aemon revelled in a break from the unrelenting heat.

“The storm will reach us faster than I thought,” Lady Desmera commented, looking to the coast again. “It looks like a typhoon.”

“Dragonstone reported a summer storm, and Sunspear reported a typhoon off the coast heading towards Shipbreaker Bay,” he supplied, remembering the talk he and Ser Jaime had not even two full hours before. “Ghost, come,” he called, but the direwolf seemed intent on bounding off to the forest. “Oh Seven Hells, Ghost, come here, this is no time to hunt!”

He followed the small direwolf, vaguely aware of two other horses following him into the thick woods, and a fainter third one paired with loud swears following them.

He was aware of all the hoofs after him fading more as he followed his direwolf into the woods, and growing stronger when he finally caught up with his wolf, who was merrily eating a hare.

The wind picked up and lashed at the trees as Lady Desmera and Loras caught up with him, shivering.

“The storm will be with us in less than an hour, my prince,” she said, over the whistling of the wind. “It likely gained momentum from the typhoon, that in turn gained momentum from the storm as they collided,” she guessed.

“We need to find some sort of shelter, quickly,” Loras agreed, as the first raindrops made it through the canopy of the Kingswoods.

“We’re not very far from the hunting cottage. Father keeps it stocked, in case me or my siblings stay out longer than we should, and won’t manage to get back to the Keep.”

“Well, we should head there. This storm is going to get ugly really fast,” the girl said, patting her palfrey’s neck soothingly.

The cottage wasn’t that far from them, and they found Ser Jaime lighting a fire in the guards’ lodging, that gave way to the entrance of the cottage itself, that was more like a miniature keep than a proper cottage. Desmera’s guards and Loras’ men had seemingly followed Jaime and made themselves at home in the lower level as the prince led their noble guests upstairs, to the royal lodgings.

“Ah, nice of you to join us, my prince,” he greeted. “As you three ran out, the ladies were already heading back to King’s Landing. They should be arriving in the city as we speak. I sent one of the Redwyne men to inform the King of our whereabouts.”

“Thank you, Ser Jaime. It wasn’t on purpose, Ghost got hungry and followed a hare into the woods,” he apologized to the knight, who waved him off.

“You cannot do a malicious thing if you tried, my prince. Remember when you put red dye in Aegon’s hair oils, and he kept it like that for weeks because he liked it so much?”

“Don’t remind me,” Aemon groaned, as Loras and Lady Desmera stifled giggles.

Since the cottage was usually for the use of the Royal family, there was but one big solar on the second floor, the King and Queen’s rooms on the third, and scattered around the solar were doors to rooms that while smaller than any of them were used to, were clearly meant for royalty.

Aemon walked straight to the solar’s hearth, and stroke up a little fire, pulling out his shirt. He heard Lady Desmera gasp, and for the umpteenth time that day, he wondered why the gods hated him so, but he soldiered on as Ser Jaime openly snorted.

“It’s cold and our clothes are wet. I’m just… going to leave my shirt here to dry, and look for dry clothes,” he finished lamely. “The rooms to the woods are for Princesses and guest ladies, the ones to the yard are for Princes and guest lords. Rhae usually uses the middle one, and Egg’s the leftmost one, so best not to use those,” he informed them, before hastily retreating to his usual bedroom, feeling the urge to hit his face on the wall until it bled.

Eventually, his own upbringing caught up with him, and as poor a host he knew he was, he still owed his guests the honor of his company.

Loras was adding more wood to the fire than he (or any Targaryen or Stark he knew of) would think necessary, and Lady Desmera was fiddling with the styling of a dress, which he guessed she found to be either out of style or just plain too essosi for her tastes. He asked her which was which.

“Neither,” she answered, smiling. “These are three dresses, because all I could find were dresses in the Lyseni-Dornish style the Princess favors, and while Princess Rhaenys knows how to wear them well, I find them too… sheer for my tastes.”

“She wears opaque cotton shifts under them,” he said, and hoped they wouldn’t question how he knew his sister’s dressing routines. He didn’t want them doubting him that it was because he ran into her room, distressed with something their grandfather said, more than once, while his sister was dressing and  _ she wouldn’t let him leave or look away _ , because while his sister might have a shred of shame hidden deep in her heart, she also believed that when one talked, they needed to make eye contact at least once every five minutes.

“Ah. I thought those were sleeping gowns,” Lady Desmera replied, deep in thought. “Well, this looks well enough, and it was a hassle enough to get out of my previous dress without help.”

“There’s a cord attached to the servant’s quarters and common rooms downstairs, you pull on it and a bell rings to summon a maid.” Aemon blushed; he should’ve explained this before.

“Hm. Well, the more you know. I had fun, though. Might call for a maid when this storm is past, though.”

Loras looked between them, then shook his head, pursing his lips. Aemon wanted to jump in the flames, and he would, had he the certainty they would burn him. As it was, he knew from his grandmother’s stories that Targaryens didn’t burn easily, as neither she or his grandfather Aerys had any burns from Summerhall, despite the Dowager Queen remembering the flames licking her with vivid clarity. As it was, he didn’t want to test his father’s theory that Egg, Rhae and him are true dragons, as his grandfather calls it, much less in front of people who would consider him mad.

He was stuck, for however long the typhoon lasted, in a lodge with both the girl and boy he liked, and it was going to likely see him dead before the storm was over. Hopefully it wouldn’t, and they would either learn about each other and simply not want to have anything to do with him anymore, or they would remain ignorant and just thinking about it made Aemon’s stomach churn with the dishonesty.

  
  


A maid brought them supper about an hour after the sky had gone completely dark. The storm raged outside, rattling at the shutters. The silence bothered Aemon; it was fine when he was the one not talking, for he much preferred to sit quietly listening and occasionally commenting, but a whole meal where everyone stood silent was simply too much for him.

“How will the storm affect your families coming over for Rhae’s wedding?” he asked, concerned. It wasn’t hard to make himself feel that way; no one should wish the loss of family unto another.

“Grandmother would likely stay on whichever holdfast they arrived today, the rain should’ve reached Tumbleton by now,” Loras said, looking into his plate.

“Father wouldn’t risk his ship sailing past a typhoon, he’s likely moored in Planky Town or Lys; Horas had sent me a raven from Lemonwood two days ago.” Lady Desmera was picking about her slice of venison. “Before Ghost ran away, you were saying your cousin Sansa was betrothed to Lord Bolton?” she changed subject, likely not wanting to worry herself sick about her family in a ship in that weather. “How did your uncle allow it?”

Aemon suppressed a snort; he found the story altogether completely hilarious, to his uncle’s and aunt’s consternation.

“Sansa is too… southron. She’s got all these little ideas of how to be a lady, but she hasn’t really stepped foot in the south except when visiting court, so she wouldn’t be as politically savvy as any born southern lady, and therefore, had she married south, she’d be chewed up alive by the local politics alone. But also, the Northern Lords feel she’s the most Andal of Lord Stark’s children, and wouldn’t want her bringing her new gods into their household like Lady Stark did with Winterfell. It’s not like there’s a sept there, not like there’s one in White Harbor, but Lady Stark did bring a Septa into the heart of the old gods’ worship,” he said, amusedly.

“I never understood why your uncle Ned married a Tully,” Loras commented, frowning. “If he’s having to struggle to find them good matches in his own backyard, why did he marry her?”

“Originally, the betrothal was Uncle Brandon’s, but after grandfather denied him Lady Dustin’s hand, when she was still Lady Ryswell, Uncle Brandon joined the Kingsguard when he heard my mother ran away with my father. He died helping mother sneak out of the Red Keep because grandfather was… not all there in his head, and kept threatening to kill her if I didn’t come out ‘a dragon’, as he called it. So Uncle Ned was forced to marry Lady Catelyn.” He shrugged.

“Yes, yes, but  _ why _ , what were the benefits, beyond King Aerys’ growing paranoia about treason.” the other boy tapped his fingers on the table to pretend he wasn’t about to demand things from a prince, disguising it with a show of curiosity, which Aemon supposed wasn’t hard to find.

“Set taxes for commerce and travels at the Twins,” he answered his friend (lover?), smiling. “Also preferential trade with the Riverlands, and timber-for-mulch arrangements, since the mulch from the areas around the Trident is much richer for glass gardens than the ones around Northern rivers.”

“I was about to ask why not marry a Frey, but first of all, ew, and second of all, that’s a very good reason,” Lady Desmera said, poking at her mashed potatos. “I get the feeling the Northern lords are complaining for the sake of their spurned daughters, though, if the terms of the alliance were so beneficial.”

“It did take them a thousand years to stop calling the Manderlys andals,” Aemon conceded. “Back to Sansa, though, my uncle was starting to feel he might never marry Sansa, and Arya would sooner run to beyond the wall than marry anyone. And then, Lord Domeric asked to spend overnight in Winterfell on his way back to the Dreadfort. Likely on Lord Bolton’s orders, mind you; the fastest way from White Harbor to the Dreadfort is through Hornwood, not Winterfell, but Uncle saw a young man coming back from the Vale, where he himself fostered as a boy, and figured he might never get a better match for Sansa.”

“No politics involved, just a long-faced northerner with grey eyes marrying a red-haired, blue eyed andal,  _ again _ ,” Loras snorted, and Lady Desmera gave him a long-suffering look of a cousin too tired to correct her cousin’s manners yet again.

“The smallfolk were certainly laughing about it; Arya told me, though, that the northern lords are perfectly happy with more red-haired children in the world. Sansa’s hair is as red as weirwood leaves, you see. They say it’s good luck, from the old gods, and truly, Sansa and Robb had been stopped a lot in Wintertown because tradition says touching red hair gives you good health.”

“That’s a weird tradition, isn’t it?” Lady Desmera questioned, tilting her head adorably. “I wonder how it came about, we certainly don’t have anything like it in the Reach.”

“We have the Harvest Fair, where we throw garlands at what is most definitely a wooden cock, though,” Loras pointed out.

“As I said, it’s supposed to be a sign of favor from the old gods,” Aemon answered, not really wanting them to delve into the Reacher Harvest Fair; he’s done this mistake once with Lady Olenna, he was not about to make the same mistake twice. “Though it’s nothing like the wildlings that Uncle is integrating in the southern rills and other lands where wildling raids weren’t as harrowing. One of them even tried to get Sansa’s hand for his son, Robb was completely dismayed at the sheer boldness of the man.”

“Oh, I’ve heard of that; I bet the northern lords were as happy about the King’s decree as the Reach lords when your sister’s betrothal was announced,” Lady Desmera said, mildly, and Aemon had to force himself not to react to that; he hated knowing that while his sister’s marriage would be a loving one, she wouldn’t be as loved by Garlan’s people.

“Well, Tormund of Ruddy Hall, that was the old fuc-- I mean, the man’s name,” he corrected himself midway; thinking of Tormund somehow always led to calling him an ‘old fucker’ for some reason, “he’s a well respected wildling chieftain. Giantsbane, they call him, and Husband to Bears, though I’ve seen Dacey Mormont more than enough to know what kind of bear he’s talking about.”

“Oh, I remember the man! He was there when the King arrived at Winterfell some year ago when the King rode out to take you back, didn’t he? Tall, old fu-- man” Loras corrected himself as well, validating Aemon’s feeling about the wildling chieftain, “white haired and more than a head taller than the King, called your father a kneeler queen!”

“Oh, he took the piss out of Egg, too, you weren’t awake to see it, but I was, it was glorious,” he said, fondly. “Egg’s short hair is a recent development, he still had his braid longer than Lady Desmera’s when he went up North, then Tormund offered to marry the ‘silver princess’ to one of his sons, too, since Mance had none to his name, because ‘marriages is the way of kneelers’.”

Lady Desmera was taking a sip of wine when he said it, and he regretted his wine-encouraged words immediately, because she choked on the liquid, in a manner he was sure Lady Redwyne would be very scandalized about (especially because it was right in front of  _ the Prince of Summerhall _ ). He didn’t know what made her blush harder: the hilariousness of Prince Aegon being taken for a princess, the shame of a Redwyne being caught wasting a good Arbor Red, or having embarrassed her entire bloodline by embarrassing herself in front of royalty. He kneeled beside her, trying very hard to keep the laughter that wanted to bubble right back up his throat (Loras didn’t have that compunction, laughing openly at his cousin through the privileges of close family), and softly patted her back where she was still heaving a little.

“Do you need a maester, my lady? I can call for him,” he offered, as her coughing finally subsidized and she found the wherewithal to pick up the napkin on her lap to clean her face.

“No, I-I’m fine, my prince,” she stammered out, and found it in herself to smile impishly at him. “Your brother really cut his hair because some wildling thought he was a woman?”

“No,” he answered, standing up to sit back on his chair, and kicked Loras’ leg, because he was still laughing a little and it wasn’t very knightly behavior. “He did after a Thenn, that’s one of their tribes, well, the Thenn went up to Father with his broken Common, and asked to steal the silver princess. That’s how the wildlings ‘marry’, anyway, and Egg was so consternated at having his hand sought not once, but twice in the same day, he pulled up a dagger, looked poor Sigorn in the eye, and sliced his braid off. If you were there, you could’ve seen Egg regretting doing it immediately, because he pulled up the wrong, normal folded steel dagger, so it came out jagged, and took more effort than it should.”

“Our Crown Prince, my prince and my lord,” she laughed, delighted, finally finding her appetite, “is an idiot, with all due respect.”

“That he is. The Smalljon was heartbroken. The son of Lord Umber, I mean,” he said, smiling.

“Was that when Prince Aegon came into your rooms, pretending to cry, and all but yelling for you to make him feel better?” Loras asked, hiding a smirk into his goblet again, and pox and damnation, he almost forgot that Loras had been there, and it wasn’t made better by the revelation that Loras had been actually flirting with him even then. Aemon blushed something brilliantly red, and tried to hide it behind his curls by looking straight into his plate of food.

“Yes, that was precisely when. Rhaenys tells this story better though.”

“Likely because she was there to see Lord Smalljon’s face, instead of sucking face with her middle brother,” Lady Desmera said, and Aemon’s face snapped up, and he was beyond the threshold of feeling anything in particular, too surprised to articulate anything. “Oh, don’t look at me like that, my prince, his grace your brother really needs to stop shouting it from the rooftops of the Red Keep, though; grandmother hasn’t had this much fun since it was her in my place, trying to get it through Prince Daeron’s thick skull, her words, that all she wanted was the honor of the marriage, not… the bedding,” she finished, making a valiant attempt not to blush.

“I’m--” he looked at Loras, then at Lady Desmera, both staring at him with the looks of people who knew too much and had too much fun knowing it. “This was a trap, and I walked right into it, didn’t I?”

“Mhmm,” she intoned, sipping from her goblet. “I wouldn’t call it a trap as much as we had certain expectations for your reaction, and you met them, my prince.”

“And what would those expectations be? Your lady grandmother doesn’t truly know me as well as she thinks; she hasn’t seen me in years and certainly not before my stay in Dorne,” he pointed out.

“Our lady grandmother knows everything Margaery does, I’d wager,” Lady Desmera said, ominously, and Aemon fought really hard to stamp down on his panic. He knew from Rhaenys that Lady Margaery knew a lot about him, because his sister was tired of keeping secrets from her best friend and goodsister and told him she told her, but still; Lady Margaery didn’t strike him as an oathbreaker, and she  _ had _ sworn a vow.

“Lady Margaery is not Rhaenys, though,” he said, arching one eyebrow, schooling his face into one of absolute nonchalance. “I’d feel more threatened and blackmailed if that were so.” He sipped on his wine for good measure, and it did seem to discomfit his company.

“O-oh,” Lady Desmera blinked, wide eyed and surprised. “Oh, my gods, we--” She started, then looked at Loras, alarmed.

“We didn’t mean it like that, your grace,” he continued, hastily, just as panicked as his cousin. “We just meant, if you’re not… all that charmed by women, as my mother says, Desmera wouldn’t mind. Grandmother only said to strike with you the deal she tried to strike with your late great-uncle Prince Daeron, is all.”

“And that would be?” he asked, amused now, all thoughts of being blackmailed gone; Loras wasn’t a good actor, he knew, and he was aware that his actions in the past year could’ve given the realm at large that impression.

“One child, and mutual respect between us, in exchange of helping keep the faith off you,” Lady Desmera offered, nodding earnestly. If she was acting, she was good.

“Hmm, there is only one flaw in your plan,” Aemon said, and paused, downing his entire goblet of wine, and watching as dread and anger spread on Lady Desmera’s and Loras’ faces respectively. He waited a bit longer, feeling the spread of the alcohol for a bit before continuing; he’d need the numbness. “I have more in common with my Uncle Oberyn than great-uncle Daeron. I do not plan on walking into any marriage my father orders me without letting my wife know that, just as Uncle Oberyn does not keep his lover Ellaria in the dark.”

Loras looked like he was trying very hard to stomp on the shred of hope that lighted up in his face, in respect to his cousin, who downed her own goblet in defiance, looking grim.

“I do not like being led on, my prince. With all due respect, if your plan is to take my maidenhead and leave,  _ like your uncle _ , I shall gladly lose a hand or both for striking royalty,” she said, dead serious.

Aemon never remembered why he hated drinking until he drank.

“Not  _ that _ much in common, my lady!” He said hastily, now of half a mind to take the wine carafe and lock himself up in his rooms. “Although, if you hear gossip about in the castle in about a moon that I aim to become just that, rest assured it was a jest that’s being planned between Rhae, myself and Elia, to see Uncle Oberyn’s face.”

Thank the gods they were all drunk, Aemon thought, feeling blessed that they laughed at it, startled out of their souring mood. They have been drinking more than eating for the better part of an hour after all.

“Then, I don’t get it,” Lady Desmera was the first to recover, pursing her lips in concentration; she ate the least of the three of them, and was the youngest by a few moons, so she was likely the drunkest. “What do you mean by being like your uncle? You mean you’d like to bed me  _ and _ my cousin?” When Aemon didn’t respond, only blushing and looking away from her like a chastened child, she continued, stunned, “...you do. Oh. Uh.” She stammered then, not sure how to proceed.

“That will never happen and you can’t make us,” Loras supplied for her, pouting.

“I don’t-- I would never! Can’t say I haven’t  _ thought _ about it,” he said, and immediately wanted to kick himself in the groin. He hated drinking. “I would-- I realize not every family is… odd like mine, and I respect your wishes in that regard, and ever will,” he practically vowed, with a vehemence he’d likely regret in the morning. Aemon refilled his goblet, and emptied it in rapid succession, as if getting  _ drunker _ was the answer to his plight.

“But you would not deny yourself a lover,” Lady Desmera finished, more somberly than he thought the talk warranted. Loras looked uncomfortable about it, shifting in his seat and deciding that eating was in his best interest.

“I am not incapable of being discreet, regardless of what my brother’s gloating might make it sound, my lady. And likely, it would be just the one,” he finished, cursing at himself for having looked at Loras, who was obliviously shoveling mashed potatoes in his mouth like he was a starving man.

Lady Desmera was silent then, finding her venison much more interesting now than before. They ate for a while in their gloomy silence, cutlery tinning as it collided softly with the plates, Aemon finding himself very much interested in the ornate filigrees of his own, listening to the shuffling of Lady Desmera’s skirts as she kicked the air with her leg hanging but an inch from the ground as she sat on the other, and Loras’ rhythmic thumping on the table’s wood, beating out a tune he didn’t recognize.

“Is it true your cousin is to marry Lord Bolton merely because he caught a wreath downstream?” Lady Desmera asked, out of nowhere, clearly not interested in continuing down the path of Aemon and her’s betrothal.

“Caught it for three years in a row,” he corrected. “It’s an old tradition. The Harvest Festival lasts for a fortnight, and the Stark of Winterfell opens and closes it by leading the singing, it’s quite fun. On the tenth day, the day it’s said Florian caught Jonquil’s own wreath she lost in the Red Fork, all eligible maidens put their own wreaths in the closest river, and the men have to wait in a farther shallow for one of them to reach them. If you’ve caught the same maiden’s wreath for three years, the gods themselves have spoken, and you’re to be married.”

“That’s quite romantic of you rugged northerners,” Loras spoke then, not looking up from his plate. “And what of a man’s wreath? Did anyone tried that yet?”

“Well,” Aemon demurred, trying not to smile. “Every once in a while someone tries. Their wreath ends up invariably in the reeds, or worse, sank by a sudden whirlpool.”

“None has ever gotten past?” the other boy asked, incredulously.

“It happened once,” he admitted. “Though not in the north. I found my great-uncle Daeron’s journal once, in a hidden room at Maegor’s. He said his lover Jeremy heard of the northron custom and they decided to jokingly do that in three separate rivers through the Reach and in the Crownlands, at the tenth day of the Northern Harvest Feast. The Mander, the Blueburn, and the Blackwater Rush.”

“And?” Lady Desmera asked, on the edge of her seat, completely enthralled.

“The Mander was so calm, they did not put much stock when Daeron’s wreath reached Jeremy, and the Blueburn, though a bit more turbulent, didn’t prove the gods’ hands as well, to them. Only when Daeron’s wreath crossed the Blackwater and washed ashore, intact, at Jeremy’s feet that they believed it.”

“Ohh, that’s so beautiful,” the lady sighed, smiling. “And you say you found this diary in a secret room in the Holdfast?”

“Yes.” He tried not to blush as he remembered how he and Aegon found that room, which was likely the same way Daeron and Jeremy had found it. “It had things about Lady Olenna that she would be very amused to read. I should bring them with me to Rhaenys’ wedding, it would that she’d see it as a peace offering.”

“Gods forbid, Grandmother might smile,” Loras added, a smile of his own in his handsome face.

“The Others will raze the Seven Kingdoms to the ground if that happens,” Lady Desmera agreed, mock solemnity in her voice.

“I shall risk it, because in the case you’re right, we’ll need the Reach to keep the armies well fed and in fighting shape,” he jested, though some of the levity it might have otherwise didn’t reach his heart.

“Tell us more about your Northern Harvest Festival, my prince,” Lady Desmera asked, and he nodded, feeling weak at the brilliant smile she gave him, shifting uncomfortably in his seat and pretending not to see Loras hiding a snort as a coughing fit.

“As I said, it lasts for a fortnight. The Northern stories tell that the five-and-ten days of harvest have always held significative days from the tales. The First Day, we have the Children’s day, where the Stark of Winterfell sings a song in the Old Tongue, and the people follow. They say it’s the song that the First Men and the Children sang, in the Isle of Faces, when they made the Pact.” He swallowed, taking more wine to wet his parched throat at the sight of Loras’ and Lady Desmera’s focused stares. “All days have little themes like that. The second day is said to be when Bran the Builder was born. Every child born that day is called Brandon, by the way, it’s why my little cousin is called that; Lady Catelyn wanted to name him Edmyn. The fifth day is--”

“You skipped two days, my prince,” Loras interrupted.

“Well, I severely doubt the names Moren the Wolf and Harald Raven-Eyes will make any sense to Southrons not named Blackwood,” Aemon replied, unbothered. “As I said, the fifth day is when Symeon Star-Eyes caught the star sapphires that became his eyes. The eighth day is devoted to Brandon of the Bloody Blade, and is when we mourn those who perished.”

“Brandon of the Bloody Blade is a hero from the Reach,” Loras interrupted again.

“Brandon of the Bloody Blade was the father or grandfather of Brandon the Builder,” Aemon explained, in the most long-suffering tone. He felt like he had to explain this far too many times. “And besides, you can hardly reach the North from the Arm of Dorne without going through the Reach and the Stormlands. Of course Brandon of the Bloody Blade was born in the Reach, even if his descendants chose to follow the Children of the Forest north.”

“Loras wouldn’t know,” Lady Desmera said, non-chalant. “His house can barely claim any First Men blood, just look at his surname.  _ Tyrell _ .”

“As if anyone south of the neck that isn’t a Narrow Sea Lord or called Blackwood can even claim much more,  _ Redwyne, _ ” he retorted, sticking out his tongue at her.

“The tenth day,” he continued, before they could continue bickering; he’d had enough of that when some maids had thought them having First Men blood is what he counted as a proper wife to be, “is the day Florian the Fool caught Jonquil’s lost wreath and the most auspicious day for weddings too. The entire day is a big, communal wedding. The three-and-tenth day is the Builder’s day, where most people put forth petitions for new buildings or when they put the first foundation stone in the ground. The last day is the Direwolf day. Apparently, this year was the first year in a long time they actually had direwolves to celebrate, and not just Starks. Robb said the Last Song sounded more complete with the wolves howling, too.”

“It sounds like a beautiful festival. Were that I could experience it for myself one day,” Lady Desmera whispered, dreamily.

Aemon was drunker than he expected, because he clearly couldn’t stop himself from saying embarrassing things as soon as Lady Desmera smiled.

“I refuse to marry on any other day, so I am fairly sure you’ll get to see it, my lady.”

As his words caught up with his mind, he excused himself from the table, and tried very hard not to run into his rooms, cursing for what felt like the millionth time that night that wine seemed to disagree with his need to stay dignified.

He had shed his clothes and was crawling into his bed in only his smallclothes, with every intention of curbing his cock’s enthusiasm in the room’s cold if it came to it, set in wallowing in his misery, when he heard his door hinges creaking softly, opening then closing. He turned around, to find a blushing Loras standing there.

“Can it wait until tomorrow? I’m getting ready for bed,” he said, stupidly. Clearly if Loras was here, his cousin was in her rooms, and the reachman’s intentions were very bed-related. “Uh. I don’t think this is a good idea, we’re both not sober--” he tried, but Loras had walked the five paces to him and kissed him. Aemon stood there, letting it happen, returning the kiss as best as he could given how surprised he was. His cock even seemed a bit interested, but not a lot; he was entirely too tired from the riding, the exhausting conversation and the wine.

“I think it’s a very good idea,” Loras whispered against his lips, smiling in a cocky way that had Aemon breathing just a little faster. He let himself be dragged to the bed, and when Loras’ hands slid under his smallclothes, he simply stopped thinking.

 

The next morning greeted Aemon with a headache, and a pain in his backside he feigned not to know about. It was better for his dignity if he could believe no one knew that the Prince of Dragonstone wasn’t the only one that could bend him over. He didn’t  succeed as well as he’d like when he looked at Lady Desmera and she merely smirked at him, blushing a little, as if she knew exactly what happened. The fact he was trying very hard to walk straight without any signs of discomfort wasn’t the reason people just  _ knew _ , it couldn’t be, or so he told himself.

“Good morning, my prince,” she greeted, all bubbly smiles. Clearly, she wasn’t feeling winesick.

His mood wasn’t so soured that he couldn’t appreciate Lady Desmera’s styling efforts with a gown style she was utterly unfamiliar with, though. She had on the same light jewelry as yesterday: what he surmised was her grape bunch necklace, some loose bracelets in the shape of filigree vines, and a ring with the arms of House Redwyne; she also had helped herself to the gift jewelry that his mother kept in the guest quarters for any family guest to take, as she wore anklets with little amethyst crystals in the shape of tears hanging from them. The lady had also somehow fashioned a reach-style dress out of the Lysene dress she was wearing, with an outer shift of wine red and the dress itself hanging off her shoulders, held up by twin chains looped around the arm holes and then into each other on the back. Said dress was obviously too big for Lady Desmera on the length, too, but she and the maid seemed to have gotten around with with hasty but practiced stitches of golden thread in strategic points, making the bottom of the dress more like a flower than its original, flowing design.

He had always appreciated ingeniousness in people.

Aemon nearly walked into the table where their morning meal was set, so entranced he was by noticing every little effort that went into Lady Desmera’s clothing. Loras and Lady Desmera noticed, despite his efforts to pretend nothing happened and sitting as dignified as he could in his seat, and focused on his food, but alas, the gods mock the pleas of kings and cowherds alike, or so Lord Baratheon would say.

“I am glad to see I please my prince,” Lady Desmera said, airily, almost distractedly, while Loras at least attempted some dignity. Ser Jaime was posted by the entrance of the staircase, and Aemon would be glad of the diversion if the man would just  _ come over and say his piece _ .

“Ser Jaime, do you have anything to say?” he asked before he made even more of a fool of himself.

“Yes,” the knight spoke, amused. “The trails and roads from here to King’s Landing are unfit for any type of travel for two days or so more. The gardens of the cottage took a hit, but are visitable. We are well-stocked for three more days, but if the roads do not improve by tomorrow, I’m leading a group of experienced guards on a hunt, just in case.”

“And Ghost? Is he well?” he inquired, anxious. It didn’t feel like his own.

“He is pacing in his pen, and whined the whole night, or as much of a whine he does. Does your grace wish to have him brought up?”

“Yes, please.” He settled back into his chair, running a hand into his hair. “Ser Jaime? Are the training grounds usable? I’d like to do something that doesn’t involve sitting around for now.”

“I’m sorry, my prince, but it is still too muddy, and the servants have been trying to remove a tree that fell over, but they’re trying to recover it for timber as well, so it’s slow going.”

Aemon slunk pettily into his chair, almost pouting, but reigning in the urge to.

“Did father ever manage to change the books in the cottage? I feel like I’ve read them a thousand times over already,” he asked instead of whining like he wanted to.

“Yes, your grace. The groundskeeper has been complaining endlessly they’ve taken his favorite book, too.” Ser Jaime had a soft smile on his face, doubtlessly thinking of his little brother, Tyrion. Aemon like Tyrion; the man was smart and funny, and seeing his face when his father all but order Lord Lannister that Lord Tyrion was to succeed him was heartrending.

“That’s good.”

It wasn’t good. Sitting around all day, eating and reading in awkward silence was the farthest thing from good Aemon could think of. Loras, not one for reading, polished his swords and daggers so many times he was sure that they were a few grams lighter. Lady Desmera would read a few of the romance books Rhaenys favored, then get inordinately angry with the main character, and storm off to her rooms, and come out an hour later in a wholly different outfit. Aemon tried to immerse himself in the dry, dispassionate book on taxes he found on the nearest bookshelf, but the lack of chatter distracted him; usually, Aegon would be talking to him about a gossip or some odd passage in the book he himself would be reading, or Rhaenys would rage, endlessly and loudly, about the utter stupidity of the main character of the story she was reading, enlisting her brothers in the mind-numbing task of tearing the plot of it apart. He wasn’t used to reading in utter, chilling silence.

“Lady Desmera, is that the book where the heroine is warned that you cannot trust the prince, but she trusts him anyway, and he proceeds to cage her in a room only he has the key as a pleasure slave?” He asks, out of complete unnerving boredom, as the girl starts to seethe in rage, again.

“Yes,” she answers, angrily, eyes still locked with the page. “Why is she such a political  _ idiot _ , isn’t she supposed to have been groomed to be a possible princess from the start?!”

“Well, no, her parents wished for the match, because they were, uh, what’s it they’re called in the book? Duke and Duchess? And in the book’s story, that’s one step below being a prince, so they didn’t think she was this coddled,” he shot back, gladly engrossing himself in the talk instead of his book, because the silence was getting to him too much.

“Well, I’m the son of a Lord Paramount, and I’m still not that dumb,” Loras said, looking up from his sword. (It seemed everyone but Ser Jaime was bored, but  Ser Jaime was possibly glad for the utter mundaneness of this; Aemon shuddered to think of what his Kingsguard had to go through at his age.)

Lady Desmera and Aemon turned to look at Loras then, and then looked at each other, smiling.

“Hmm, yes, cousin, a very smart move to sneak into the prince’s rooms at night,” she teased, and Aemon tried to stop the flush that stubbornly spread over her face. “What did Garlan say about waving your sword about around royalty?”

“That I had Grandmother’s blessing, because she trusted  _ not _ the way Lord Renly was eyeing me,” he stuck his tongue out at his cousin, who merely shook her head, almost disappointed.

“That girl was just sheltered, though, and her parents didn’t know the extent. Her mother was supposedly raised better, but she thought the way she was raised was too much for a normal lady,” he directed the conversation back to the previous topic. Thankfully, they let it lie, even as he saw Ser Jaime shake his head in almost brotherly disappointment.

The rest of the day, they spent ripping into the Lady Sara’s intelligence as she made dumber and dumber decisions, until she came on the other side somehow victorious by the power of the gods protecting the imbeciles, as Lady Desmera said, echoing Rhaenys’ opinion that men should never write about women ever again. Aemon felt himself be trapped hopelessly in love with the girl.


	33. Queen Naerys/Aemon the Dragonknight; the altar of the maiden

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt:
> 
> Summary: the queen and her kingsguard go worship in the sept.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i headcanon that while daeron ii was aegon iv's son, daenerys martell most definitely WASN'T. also melissa blackwood was a bro and u can pry that one out of my cold dead body.

It was at times like this, that Naerys realized that, maybe, her brother-husband filling the court with whores and flesh peddlers might not be entirely a bad thing. Normally, she recalled from her youth, the sept would always have visitors from court ladies and knights alike. Nowadays, however, it went that no one would ever enter the holy building for sennights, fortnights at a time, and one time, she spent a moon in there without seeing another soul but her Kingsguard.

The Kingdoms were going to be in tatters that her son would have to pick up when Aegon finally died from his excesses, but for now, Naerys thought as Aemon pulled her closer, their noses touching and lips itching to join, it wasn’t such a bad thing.

When Aemon’s lips touched hers, Naerys felt a weight off her shoulders, even if she still felt a little guilty over all the things they’ve done in the sight of the gods, then rationalized to themselves, giggling as children, that it was all the more holy for it.

She let Aemon take the lead, trusting him in ways she’d never trust the brother their parents made her marry, when her brother hoisted her up and put her in the altar of the Maiden. They always made love on the altar of the Maiden.

“Aems,” she called, whispered really, afraid of breaking the sanctity of the moment if she spoke too loud. “We can’t, we… I haven’t--” she tried to explain, make Aemon understand she was expected to have a spare or a little wife to little Daeron now without having to speak of Aegon’s horrid seed inside her. Sometimes, she fantasized about letting Aemon take her without her being pregnant, to have Aemon’s children instead of Aegon’s, now that she’s done her duty and gave her disgusting older brother an heir. But she knew it would always eat away at her conscience so she held herself back, never asked with her words or body.

“I know, sweet sister,” her Dragonknight replied, soothing, smiling so sweetly Naerys thought she would die, she loved him so much. “I live to serve you, my love,” Aemon said, and Naerys pulled him down for a kiss, not trusting herself to simply throw caution to the wind and beg her brother fuck her. She couldn’t. They had duties.

But the way he said it still lit a fire in Naerys, an ugly need in her that captured her soul in its vicious grip and  _ twisted _ until she found a way to give into her brother’s sweet embrace.

“On your knees, then, my knight,” she said, with more bravado than she had; she always felt horrible commanding Aemon to do things to her, but he always complied, smiling and reassuring her that he didn’t mind being ordered to debase himself if it came from  _ her _ . It still rankled on her, even if she did feel hotter at the loins for it. She prayed it didn’t mean she was as sick in the head as Aegon.

Aemon smiled, and did as he was told, grabbing one of her legs in the process and hiking up her skirts as he kissed up, up, up, over her calf, her knee, the inside of her thigh. So reverently he did it, an onlooker might think him a devout worshipping his goddess, and she loved him for it. She lifted her hips off the altar, and let him remove her smallclothes, watching as he did so, his eyes glued to hers as if she was something precious.

“I love you,” Aemon said, then, suddenly, soft and sweet like him, before pushing her thighs apart and giving her folds a kiss. 

Naerys silently cursed at the gods for not having married him.

She covered her mouth as the other hand flattened her skirts so she could look properly at her love, on his knees and looking at her as she leaned onto the Maiden’s feet, as if she was the Maiden herself and this was how he chose to worship her, his tongue lapping up at her and bared hands caressing her thighs, her belly, fondling her breasts at turns while Aemon ate her up as if she was a feast and he, a man starving.

The hand on her mouth moved to Aemon’s silvery straight locks, gripping at his head like she was afraid he would go away. She truly was, and prayed that no one might come around the sept.

Her brother pushed a finger inside, and Naerys had to bite her lip to the point of bruising to stop the pathetic whine that came out of her from echoing all around the sept. Her legs spread wider, and he licked at that little nub he knew drove her wild, then sucked at her wet folds that twitched around his finger, as he gently caressed her.

She felt herself coming undone from the sheer forbiddenness of the situation; letting herself be debauched by the wrong brother in a sept, being worshipped like the statue she was set on the feet of, it was exhilarating in a way things shouldn’t be. Aemon let herself take her pleasure on his fingers, and when she was done shaking, he sucked on the finger, eating her juices up as if it was a dessert he loved.

Just as she was beginning to offer to retribute the favor, they heard voices heading their way, and Naerys hastily pulled up her smallclothes, and tried adjusting her clothes in a hurry; this wasn’t right, there wasn’t supposed to be anyone here--

“Ah, sorry, Your Grace,” came the voice of Melissa Blackwood. “I didn’t know you would be here,  _ worshipping _ .” The way she said it, Naerys was sure she knew, but there wasn’t any judgement in the girl’s tone. “Were that I could, too, but a sept doesn’t hold the same holiness of a godswoods, it seems.”

“Well, I should leave, it is getting late,” Naerys said, nodding at the curtsing girl.

“If I may be so bold, Your Grace,” Melissa called, just as she passed her, “King Aegon is already spreading falseties that Prince Daeron is not his son. I wouldn’t be so restrained if I were you.” And she left towards the godswoods, as the Queen headed to her apartments, filled with rage, and the start of an idea in her mind.


	34. Theon gen; farm kids

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: i was joking with mneiai on tumblr that winterfell is technically a farm, where’s my farm humor (NGL even i fell for that trap after years of city slickin’), and i said sth and they said i should jot that shit down and so i am.
> 
> Summary: Theon’s Aggravating First Years in Winterfell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> reinforcing that just bc a friend said i should write sth and i did, it doesn't mean i'm taking requests.
> 
> this was incredibly fun and disturbing to write!!! did you know most of the farm memes my cousins, who are farmers, farmer children and one is a farm vet, know are incredibly bestialic in nature? why are farm kids fucking sheep in the hills? why are farm kids memetic songs disturbing in its cultish-like happenings? i don't know and as a farm diaspora kid, i'm afraid to know. my years of city slicking made me soft or raised my standards and none of us can agree on either.




He had no idea what he even said that was so funny.

Theon had finally been allowed into Wintertown on his own (well… mostly), and the first thing he did with his newfound freedom was the logical thing: he walked right into a brothel and hired the first girl that struck his fancy. Red haired, great hips for holding, big breasts that Theon could watch bounce all day as his cock disappeared and pulled out… He liked Ros a lot.

Unfortunately, the only ones he had to talk were Lord Stark’s sons, Lord Robb and Jon Snow, who… were all of ten years old. Much too young for the talks Theon wanted to have, really, but he had no one else. The adults still thought of him as a child (he’s old enough to fuck women, now!), and he’s much too grown to talk with children, so the eldest pups would have to do. He told them of Ros, and immediately, the two boys started laughing. Incontrollable laughing, the kind you find in people taken by hysterical moods.

“I don’t know what’s so funny,” he mumbled, crossly, frowning and pursing his lips (he was  _ not _ pouting). He crossed his arms and reclined on the banister in a very cool pose, and waited until one of them, Stark or Snow, could explain what was going on.

“Did-- did she go mm-moooooooo when you put it in,” Robb mocked, still not getting a hold of his laughter, but controlling it enough that he could stutter  _ something _ out, and Theon belatedly realized Winterfell had a wooly  _ red _ cow named Ros, ironically enough, because  _ rosyn _ was the Old Tongue word for  _ red _ , as a very enthusiastic Jon Snow had told him in his first week at Winterfell, when the boys took him to a tour of the estate,  _ pointing _ at said prized cow.

“Did you use a stool or a hill?” Snow asked, turning red with the effort of controlling himself, and trying to sound serious, “It’s so we know where to avoid when you’re having some quality time with Ros.”

Theon wondered, not for the first time, if all greenlanders were this fucked up in the head.

 

He never mentioned Ros by name or hair color again to the little lordlings. His dignity was safer that way.

It didn’t mean Robb and Jon didn’t find other greenlander ways to annoy him.

“Row, row, row your goat, gently down the stream,” Snow sang, in that terribly pretty voice of his.

“Row, row, row your goat, gently down the stream,” little Sansa sang back, as Snow continued with “merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily, life is a goat kid.”

It was the third day of the fifth moon of the year, and it was the fifth time he heard the Winterfell kids huddle up on the battlements with Lord Cerwyn’s children and sing that song in an overlapping, creepy crescendo, until they stopped at some unseen signal and descended like starving wolves to hound the kitchens. Today, Theon was determined to know what was this about.

All the children were looking at a point in the distance towards the upper part of the White Knife, where some boats could already be seen. He tried asking what that was about, but the children seemed entranced in their creepy song about goats of all things.

“Row, row, row your goat-- Life is a goat kid,” was all he could discern after a while, and even Lady Jonelle, who was all of some twenty years old, joined in, accompanied by a few of the younger guards. Theon was starting to get creeped out, when he turned his sights to the river again, and finally, he saw what the creepy crescendo was about.

The boats coming down were carrying  _ goats _ .

With the goats in sight, the children sang their little mantra louder, the words ringing into the walls of the battlement and towers, into the courtyard itself, and no one seemed to think this was even remotely odd or as worthy of attention as Theon did.

The closer the boats came, the louder they got, until they were basically screaming their little cult-like song, and now it was even accompanied by a percussion of claps and stomps, and then, it turned out, their unseen signal to stop was the boats mooring in the curve closer to Castle Cerwyn and unloading the goats.

“Ah, it seems the goats you ordered arrived, Lord Stark,” said Lord Cerwyn, and Theon wondered why were all greenlanders so fucking  _ weird _ .

 

It was telling when the twosome of Robb and Jon got quiet, so Theon decided to go after them to find out what the two greenlanders (Theon was starting to use the word to mean anything from ‘fucking weird people’ to ‘downright creepy fuckers’) were up and about.

As Theon did not expect in the least, they were hounding Lady Sansa, holding what looked to be a wooly cow’s precedence collar.

“Sans, c’mon, we never ask you for anything,” Snow was saying.

“Robb asked me to mend his pants just last week,” she countered, not looking up from where she was embroidering little trouts in what Theon surmised was a gift to her Lord Grandfather in Riverrun.

“Alright, then,  _ I _ never asked you for anything,” Snow was saying, when Lady Sansa gave him a  _ look _ , “at least not like this, and you know asking you to save one mango tart for me isn’t that horrible, you don’t even like mango!”

“It’s the principle of the thing,” she replied, knotting off the silken thread. “Ugh, fine, what do you want me to do?”

“We need a kraken in this collar near the buckle,” Robb said.  _ A kraken? _ Theon thought, confused. “Ros had a calf, and we’re going to name it Pyke.”

“Yes, fine, but why the kraken? Isn’t that the Greyjoy arms?”

Robb and Snow looked at each other before Snow answered his half-sister.

“Theon once told us about this girl in the Wintertown brothel called Ros, with red hair. You do recall what Ros, the cow, looks like, right?”

“A red wooly cow, what do you-- oh. Ew.” Lady Sansa’s face contorted into a disgusted sneer that was very unbecoming of a lady as pretty as she was.

“Yeah, and the calf came out all black but for a patch of gold on its neck that has some veins out, like a kraken,” Robb finished, and Theon felt the blood drain from his entire self.

“You don’t think he actually… fathered a calf on the cow, do you?” Lady Sansa asked, shaking her head in disgust.

“No, but it’s funny,” Snow said, smiling brilliantly, and damn his pretty face, because Lady Sansa visibly cannot say no to her half-brother. Theon knows better than to imply anything untoward is happening there, though.

 

4.

The meat today was really good, he didn’t know why Robb and Snow seemed so sullen about it.

It smelled good from the get-go, spicy and seasoned to perfection. Theon had no idea what had the boys so down about a good slice of meat. Even five-namedays-old little Bran seemed down about it. 

So he approached Arya, who seemed the least put down about the meat of the Starklings.

“Why is everyone so down?”

She looked at him in an odd way, like she’d been expecting all people to ask her about it but him.

“Ser Loin was put down today, and we’re eating him,” she answered as if he should know what a ‘ser loin’ was.

“And that has everyone down, why?”

“His name was Ser Loin Pyke,” she added, and it clicked for Theon. Suddenly, he lost his appetite too, but he couldn’t exactly pinpoint  _ why _ . It wasn’t like the young bull had been his actual child, no matter what Robb and Snow said. “I’m sorry for your loss. He was a great bull, gone too soon. He died defending the herd from a wolf, if that makes you feel better,” Arya said, oddly gentle towards him. “We had to finish the job the wolf started because saving him would mean he would be in a lot of pain everyday.”

“I’m not--” he started, then sighed, resigned. “Thank you.”

He found himself wide awake that night, thinking about the damned cow. Lying awake, and wondering if he shouldn’t sleep on the bed the Starklings had so eagerly arranged for him.

“Fuck all a’yall,” he whispered, angrily, into the emptiness of his room, and pressed his fists into his eyes, swearing that he’d find a way to get Robb and Snow for making him think of a  _ cow _ like  _ that _ .


	35. Jon Snow & Sansa Stark; couple cosplay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt: https://valar-morekinks.livejournal.com/2346.html?thread=937002#t937002
> 
> summary: sansa and aemon have a penchant for couple cosplay, with one problem: they're not a couple, just two romantic idiot cousins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HELLO. I LIVE. sort of.  
> as i said when i wrote _thirty days straight of pure sin_ , i know my sins. and im back with this cute shit that is 100% not what the op wanted, but then, i can't write jonsa and i accept it.

It infuriates Sansa that everytime she manages to think up a cosplay, her cousin Aemon somehow picks the exact love interest of her character.

It used to be funny, really, when they’d run around as Winry and Ed, or Luna and Noctis (Aemon really pulls off the whole brooding prince thing, which is fitting, she supposes, as he’s actually one), but now? In the year of the Father 2019 After Conquest, in this sweltering SunCon,  _ in Dorne _ , she has reached her limit.

“Hey, Sans, did you see that Geralt cosplayer?” Jeyne asked, the blindfold of her Phillipa cosplay pulled up so she could actually see.

Sansa, dressed as  _ Yennefer of Vengenberg _ , cringed.  _ Dear Crone, please tell me you’ve inspired my cousin with another cosplay that isn’t the match to my own _ .

“Yeah, that Snow guy is here, he looks hot in all that dark leather,” Beth said, fanning herself with her own Margarita prop.

Sansa wasn’t having it.

_ “Aemon!” _ , she screamed, throwing respect for his cosplay persona through the window.  _ “You excuse of a cousin, not fucking again!” _

Aemon turned at her, startled, eyes wide and trying to find a fast escape.

“Sans! Uh… small world huh?” He was still looking for a way out, it seemed, and only now she noticed the mass of people gathering around, because  _ was that Alayne Stone and Jon Snow? Wow, and they’re doing couple cosplay again, that’s so romantic _ , and Sansa wanted to shoot everyone in the room and then herself.

“We gotta start communicating, cuz, if that creep pays us to kiss one more time, I swear your father will understand me murdering you,” she threatened, anger boiling up in unfathomable waves of loathing.

“Ygritte came as Triss?” he offered, eyes searching everywhere for the unruly mop of brilliant red hair that was Aemon’s little free folk ‘friend’. “Oh no,” he muttered, eyes stopping on something just behind her, and Sansa turned.

“Oh no,” she repeated, horrified.

There was Ygritte, talking with the one and only con creep, Joffrey Baratheon.

She looked at her cousin, and finally there was one thing they agreed. Regretfully, they pulled out their phones and finally, after six years of  _ having _ their own phones that weren’t attached to the family bill, they exchanged numbers.

Joffrey needed to be stopped.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank yall who didn't come to the kinktober party for yall's PATIENCE, yall are SAINTS.  
> i swear it won't take two months for this to update again adksfgfg

**Author's Note:**

> more to come! pls stay tuned!
> 
>  
> 
> ~~also, some ppl asked, and while I'm flattered at the trust, _i do not take requests_. pls do not ask. I may offer for some rarepairs i can't find a prompt i like well enough, but i don't like taking requests. there seems to be an [active kinkmeme](https://thekinksidoforlove.dreamwidth.org/) tho, so maybe try ur luck there?~~
> 
> Also Psst if u wanna yell at me off AO3 about what's next, make friends and stuff, my twitter is [@kotturstjarna](https://twitter.com/kotturstjarna)


End file.
